


Don't Tell Me

by sanyumi



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Blow Jobs, Drama, Drug Use, Face-Fucking, Fighting, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Violence, cononverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-07-29 18:22:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 29,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7694662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanyumi/pseuds/sanyumi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A horrible flashback came to Connor as he stood there, of the last time he waited outside this door, clothes wadded up in his arms, heart beating in trepidation. But this time, Connor didn't know why he was here, why Oliver pushed him out.</p><p>Connor finally turned and walked, taking the elevator down and dressing himself fully in the small space, and continued walking, all the way to his apartment. Being alone with his thoughts was dangerous, it only confused and upset Connor. When were they gonna talk about this? It wasn't like Oliver could avoid it forever... and Oliver had to bring it up first, he needed to. Connor didn't know if he could, if he had the guts to, or the right to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This monstrosity of a fic was inspired by a conversation with glitterbb (yesterdayiwrote on tumblr), the lack of Oliver in the behind the scenes shots and mulling over the end of season 2 had me thinking... what if the premiere starts immediately with Connor and Oliver broken up? Imagine working under the same roof with your ex, how that would affect you. And this was born.
> 
> Writing in canon is still new to me, so any advice/suggestions would be lovely.

Connor takes a peek up at Oliver, who's currently seated on the chair opposite him, laptop out and hacking into some security footage to prove their client was not at the scene of the crime. He feels that familiar burn of helpless frustration in his stomach, watching Oliver working for Annalise, but there's nothing he can do now, certainly nothing he can say... he'd lost that privilege.

Connor found out about the Stanford acceptance email, how Oliver had impersonated him and rejected the offer. Connor had been so angry, so filled with unbelievable rage and hurt that he couldn't speak. Oliver didn't even try defending himself either. The evidence was there, Connor confronted him, Oliver took full responsibility, features horribly constructed into a poker face that shook Connor to his core.

“Who _are_ you?” Connor had hissed the night he found out, waiting for an answer, an explanation, and receiving none. He wanted to take Oliver by the shoulders and give them a shake, demanding a reason. _Don't you understand the gravity of your impulsive decision? Don't you understand what you've done? Don't you love me?_ After the selfish thoughts barraged around in his skull, all the secrets he had been keeping from Oliver crashed in as a ruthless reminder that he had no place to argue. And if he did want to fight about this, that would mean he'd have to confess everything to Oliver... it would only be fair and right.

But he couldn't do it. Not yet. So, with shaking legs, Connor walked out of the apartment, turning his back to Oliver without another word.

That was last month. They didn't fight, they didn't talk, Oliver just said, “I think we need a break,” during dinner one night and Connor had ducked his head, swallowing bile he felt rising up his throat. He knew this was coming, he didn't want a 'break,' Connor wanted to talk. He wanted to finally tell Oliver everything, about Sam and Annalise practically blackmailing him and how everyone was losing their god damn minds but Connor had somehow managed to keep his because of Oliver.

He wanted to scream and fall to his knees and hold onto Oliver forever and always, keep him near, for his own sanity but also to keep Oliver safe... somehow. Even though his own life was in shambles and it seemed everything Connor touched turned rotten.

But instead Connor weakly nodded, appetite gone. Oliver went on about how long their 'break' would be and 'I just need time to think, and you need time to focus on school,' that rambling thing Oliver did that Connor used to find endearing and cute was now aggravating.

And Connor didn't find out Oliver had quit his job to _actually_ work for Annalise until he walked into her house one day, ready to meet with the rest of gang for their latest case, and saw Frank having a conversation with him, filling him in on the details. He dropped his messenger bag on the coffee table with a _clunk,_ getting their attention and leveling Oliver with a combined look of shock, sadness, and fear.

This was reality now. Reality was sitting across the room from Oliver, pretending everything was normal, trying to convince himself that this was fine, it would be fine. Oliver was a grown man, he was allowed to make his own decisions, he was allowed to work for whoever he wanted, he was allowed to break up with Connor.

Connor brought his lips in, forming a thin line, looking back down to the paper work in front of him, leafing through the files, unfocused eyes glancing distractedly as words blurred together.

“Connor, wake up,” Michaela scolded him lightly from the other side of the couch. Connor huffed, lifting his head like it was made of lead and leveled Michaela with a bored look.

“I'm awake,” he said plainly, forcing his eyes back down to the documents and not on Oliver.

He heard Michaela sigh. “Yeah? Then what did I just say?”

Connor blinked, lifting his lashes to stare at the coffee table, littered with cups of coffee and boxes of case files. Michaela had spoken? Was Connor seriously so lost in his own thoughts he couldn't hear what was happening around him? Maybe he needed to see a shrink.

“Sorry, I wasn't-” Connor started, rubbing his eyes and pushing against the wrinkled skin between his brows. “I guess I wasn't paying attention.”

“You alright, dude?” Asher asked from the other side of the room. Connor huffed, resuming to keep his head down, forcibly not looking up in case he caught Oliver's eyes.

“Yes, I'm _fine,”_ Connor spat, his head giving a twitch of annoyance. He picked up the manila folder he was reading from, shaking it out with a _snap,_ and slapping the packet on the table and standing, walking to the kitchen.

Reaching for the cupboards and turning on the faucet, Connor sighed, filling up a glass with water and sipping from it slowly, turning to lean back against the counter. He closed his eyes and listened to whispers from the living room.

“Why don't you go talk to him?” Wes said in that kind tone, too caring. Connor used to think it was a front, a way to trick people. But Wes really was too damn considerate.

“He said he's fine,” Oliver spoke. Connor's fingers pressed dangerously tight against the glass before he deflated, lolling his head back and parting his lips.

No one in the house knew. For all intents and purposes, Oliver and Connor were still a thing. They hadn't officially talked about it, but there was this silent, mutual exchange between them, to keep their personal business out of the Keating house. Connor didn't need his classmates talking about him or Oliver, he didn't need them trying to comfort him, and he definitely didn't want Annalise thinking he was any less useful (than he already was).

Connor took another sip of his water. Oliver and him still hadn't spoken much. Connor moved out of the apartment, taking his old place back, holding back tears and words he wanted to unleash, packing more stuff into a taxi than what he came with. Living in his drably old apartment was the final stab to Connor's gut and he had finally let it all out. Sobbing, drinking, breaking things, punching walls. It was wrong, everything was so fucking wrong.

“Hey.”

Connor's head snapped up at the timid greeting, meeting Oliver's tired eyes. He was casually walking into the kitchen toward Connor.

Connor gave a tiny smile. “Hi.”

Oliver nodded to the cup. “What happened to your hand?” He stuffed his hands into his pants pockets.

Connor looked down at the swollen purple along his knuckles. He gave a dry laugh.

“Ah, punched a wall,” Connor shrugged, setting the glass aside.

A sigh. “Really, Connor?” Oliver asked, exasperated, his eyes narrowing.

“But don't worry, the wall is fine,” Connor half joked, his smile slipping.

They stared for a long moment, the silence stretching between them and all Connor could think about was crossing the space, wrapping his arms around Oliver, pulling him close to feel every curve fit against his body. To appreciate the warmth Oliver always naturally radiated, feel it on his skin and nose and lips as he nuzzled his face in the crook of Oliver's neck; his safe spot. Connor wanted to kiss and touch and say he was sorry but knew he couldn't. Oliver was off limits now. Looking at what he wanted but couldn't have was painful, speaking to him was torture; cruel and unusual punishment.

Connor felt himself shaking with the effort to remain casual, to keep himself glued to the counter's edge. Oliver wasn't speaking, just staring at him with unclear eyes, pupils shifting this way and that, as if he was studying the lines of Connor's face, his eyebrows and cheekbones and lips.

Connor licked his lips and he watched, curiously, with a light flutter in his chest, as Oliver gasped quietly, gaze locked onto his mouth.

They hadn't kissed since Connor stormed out of the apartment, and for those past weeks and right now, he was positively _craving_ Oliver's lips. Noticing Oliver's eyes darken and flick up to meet Connor's eyes once more, Connor wondered if Oliver was feeling something similar, this urge-- _desire_ \-- to press, lick, bite, claim.

Connor pushed himself from the counter, damn the consequences, as he motioned forward to do exactly that, when Annalise chose that time to waltz in from her office, the solid oak door swinging open, with a demand of:

“Why don't I hear pages turning?”

A shudder ran down Connor's spine, probably one of pure hatred, brushing past Oliver instead, as if that was his plan all along, keeping his gaze forward and focusing on something else to regulate his breathing. He thought he heard a stuttered sigh of relief come from Oliver.

The torture only intensified from there.

Days went by working under the same roof. The 'Keating 5' reading, researching, and making phone calls while Oliver was called in sporadically, often working just as much as the students, figuring out ways around the law and how to use acquired footage and documents that weren't previously known to the court. It was driving Connor mad. Eventually all this digging was not only going to get Oliver in trouble, but it would make the prosecutors curious and do some illegal digging of their own; they'd figure it out, it'd happened before (Annalise somehow miraculously talking her way out of it). Connor knew there'd be a day though, one day where Annalise would slip up, unable to smooth anything over, and they'd all go to jail, as they deserved to.

Not Oliver though. Connor would take the blame for everything if it meant keeping Oliver away from all this ridiculousness.

He glared pitifully at Oliver as they started their next case a couple weeks later, he was walking in through the foyer and their eyes met. Connor felt his heart clench in his chest, a typical reaction whenever he found Oliver's gaze. And in turn Oliver did this thing where his lips parted slightly, his chest puffing out, eyes sad yet wanting before quickly looking away.

These exchanges had been happening with more and more frequency since that moment in the kitchen, each one leaving Connor breathless and aching for more.

Like the time Oliver peeked up at Connor from behind his laptop, catching him staring. Instead of looking down, like he usually did, Connor smiled meekly, his stare fixed. Connor's heart gave a little flip of victory when Oliver had smiled back. A tiny, unguarded smile that caused Connor to almost crush the papers in his hands.

Or when they passed each other in the hall or on the porch, Connor would sense that feeling of being stared at and turn his head, spotting familiar brown eyes watching him, Oliver hefting his laptop bag further up his shoulder and looking to the side with a grin. Sometimes Connor would “accidentally” brush their hands together as he attempted to slide past Oliver in the foyer or down the steps, a thrill coursing up his arms and down his spine.

After weeks of this torment, Connor figured it was time for a talk. He didn't know what to say or how to bring it up, but all these escaped touches and glances, stolen and teasing smiles had to mean something... that at the very least Oliver was still longing for Connor, maybe just as much as Connor longed for him.

So after a friendly chit chat in the kitchen over beer and hard cider, a well deserved break in the middle of the night from Annalise's work load, Connor snagged Oliver by the wrist, stopping him from following the group of law students out.

He had nothing prepared. Connor's fingers were strong around Oliver's wrist, unable to let go and feeling just a tad too comfortable there. The familiar warmth of his skin on his, even just on Connor's finger tips, was exhilarating and comforting.

“Hey, um,” Connor tried, swallowing and licking his lips nervously.

Oliver turned to face him fully, his friendly visage falling to confusion and worry.

_Why was he worried?_

Connor kept his hand around Oliver.

“Can we talk about... this?” Connor whispered, his thumb caressing the skin along Oliver's wrist.

Oliver hesitated for a moment before stepping forward. Connor inhaled sharply, his nerves shooting off like erratic, happy fireworks. _Yes, please come closer, oh my God._

“About what?” Oliver asked just as quietly. Connor attempted to compose himself.

He tugged on Oliver's hand, encouraging to come _just a little further_ more and was elated when Oliver reciprocated, standing just a breaths distance from him. Connor encased Oliver's hand in both of his now, fingers clutching around Oliver's like a child.

“Can we... I mean,” Connor ducked his head, wetting his lips. Why couldn't he summon the courage he used to have? What had Oliver done to him, making his heart run marathons and his brain stutter dumbly. Where was that suave, confident, no-nonsense man Connor had worked so hard to build and maintain all these years?

“I miss you,” Connor whispered to the floor, his thumbs pressing hard against the back of Oliver's hand.

It stung, it really truly _stung_ when Oliver slipped his hand out of Connor's grasp, the former's body going tense. Connor felt the blood drain from his face, his skin going numb as his empty hands dropped to his sides.

“We're not having this conversation here,” Oliver spoke quickly, almost forgetting their location and lowering his voice at the end. He crossed his arms as Connor finally pulled his head up, studying the lines on his face.

Connor's teeth grit together, jaw stiff and clenched, holding back a million words and confessions and emotions.

“When are we having it?”

“Never, Connor. I don't know. Stop this,” Oliver spoke curtly, his gaze falling everywhere but on Connor, purposefully avoiding eye contact and looking physically uncomfortable.

He heard Oliver's voice crack though. A break that made Connor's heart fall in his stomach.

“'Stop this'? You mean... this watching and touching that you're definitely mutually apart of?” Connor's voice rose slightly as Oliver shook his head, body swaying and turning away. Connor followed though, keeping his eyes locked to Oliver's by awkwardly moving his head as he attempted to step around the older man.

Before he could make it out of the kitchen, Connor tried one more time, voice small.

“I thought you said this was just a break.”

That made Oliver stop, pivoting to halfway face Connor, face horribly controlled.

“I know what I said,” he took a deep breath, a hand pulling through his hair. “And I'm still thinking about it. Are you even aware--” Oliver seemed to catch himself though, laughing at himself, eyes rolling up.

“What?” Connor demanded softly, confusion and frustration furrowing his brow.

Oliver's chin dipped, his lashes lifting to consider Connor. It made Connor swallow. Oliver probably wasn't aware he was doing it, but he was such a fucking tease with those eyes.

“You,” Oliver sighed, straightening his shoulders, “are a real test to my patience.”

Connor let him exit the kitchen, finally rejoining everyone in the living room. Connor stayed rooted to the spot, considering Oliver's words. He shoved his hands in his pockets and nodded to himself, taking that statement as a step in the right direction.

If anyone was questioning Connor and Oliver's relationship status, their hushed argument in the kitchen confirmed any burning curiosity the law students had. Everyone was walking on egg shells around the two from then on, and it was driving Connor insane.

During a study session at Asher's house one evening, his classmates giving him the cold shoulder and decisively not bringing up work or Oliver in any way, Connor had finally had enough.

“Okay, this 'ignoring Connor' thing has to stop,” he said in the middle of highlighting a pointless sentence in a textbook. All eyes were on him immediately.

Connor's eyes danced between them, Wes and Michaela on the couch, Laurel sitting on the floor and Asher who was just walking in from the bathroom, paused dramatically mid-step. Connor rolled his eyes at the silence.

Connor raised his brows and lifted his arms, palms up and open, a gesture of 'really, guys?'

“I-I wasn't aware-”

“Oh please, Laurel,” Connor shook his head condescendingly. Laurel glared.

“What the hell are we supposed to do?” Michaela chirped, snapping her book shut. “Oliver walks in and you two tense up immediately. It's like there's a dead body in the room and the two of you think the other has committed a crime.”

Connor rolled his eyes. “Well we're all guilty of _that,”_ he deadpanned.

Michaela pressed her fingers to her forehead, like Connor was giving her a headache. “All I'm saying is,” she removed her hand, leveling Connor with a knowing, tired frown. “That this thing between you two, whatever it is, is affecting our case work. No one can focus when we can _hear_ you brooding.”

“M'not brooding,” Connor mumbled, pulling a throw pillow to his chest without thinking.

The group looked between Connor and Michaela, silent, wondering what would happen next.

“Well whatever is going on, whatever you did, fix it.”

Connor huffed, his whole head rolling with his eyes. “Why is it my fault?”

“It's always your fault,” Michaela muttered darkly, already focusing her attention back to their school work.

While Michaela might have had a point, Connor wasn't ready to start begging for Oliver back. If he needed space, who was Connor to deny that? He certainly wasn't about to start spilling the beans about what his classmates had been doing, late at night, coming home smelling of fear and death. So he let Oliver be. He stopped forcing desperate looks and tried to just... relax around Oliver. Work around him just like any other guy, and after a few agonizing days, it seemed to be working.

Connor could even bend over the back of the couch with the rest of his classmates, looking over Oliver's shoulder to watch as they found a new lead to work their case around. He could even look sideways at Oliver, a victorious smirk on his lips at the way Oliver's giddy face turned to meet him, sharing the euphoria.

Oliver, of his own volition, plopped down next to Connor once, not too close, but still seated next to him, curious about his research and if there was anything he could do to help. It was nice, this friendly atmosphere between them, but it still wasn't enough. If anything, it made Connor ache more; Oliver was more open and relaxed around Connor, but never let himself get too close.

Apparently it wasn't enough for his traitorous 'friends' either. Asher had asked Connor to grab an old box of case files from the basement that could hold information about their client from a past crime. For some reason Connor shrugged and went down, bored with sitting and reading anyway and figuring the short walk down the stairs and looking for said box would be an exciting enough break from their work load.

While Connor was taking his time looking, he heard a pair of footsteps treading lightly, echoing around the spacious room, crammed with boxes or paperwork with the light smell of mildew and dust. He looked up and couldn't stop the smile from breaking out as he watched Oliver descend the last steps, turning toward him.

“Hey, I'm not doing much up there so, Michaela suggested I could come and help,” Oliver explained in a rush, tugging at the ends of his jacket sleeves.

 _Oh, Michaela_ , Connor thought with a sly grin, turning away so Oliver didn't see. She really had a problem with sticking her nose in other people's business.

“I certainly won't deny another pair of eyes,” Connor offered as a way of acceptance.

They searched in silence for a couple minutes, the only sounds disturbing the air being the flutter of paper or the rusting of boxes as they moved them around.

Connor's eyes slipped sideways, watching Oliver sit on a pile of boxes and flip through a dusty folder. He took in the man's gray slacks, matching suit jacket, and button down underneath. He was even wearing dress shoes.

“Why do you still wear a suit?”

Oliver's head snapped up at the random question.

“What?”

Connor waved his arm in Oliver's direction. “You work in someone's house now, Oliver. You don't have to get dressed up every day.”

That made Oliver pause, a shy smile stretching his lips out.

“I don't know, I like looking nice,” he murmured, thumb and forefinger caressing the page pressed between them.

Connor considered Oliver, tapping absentmindedly along the folder he had been skimming.

“You always look nice, Ollie.”

At the old nic name Oliver's eyes softened, smile turning slightly amused, slightly insecure.

Connor went on without prompt. “You could wear gross, torn old sweatpants from the 50s and still look hot,” he grinned playfully and was rewarded with Oliver snickering, head dipping to hide slightly behind the files in his hands.

“That's debatable,” Oliver said, eyes kind.

“That's truth, actually.” Connor stood, gaining some of his old confidence back. He tossed the folder onto the nearest boxed surface and sauntered over, standing above Oliver.

“Are you gonna take me to court over it?” Oliver played along.

It was a silly retort but Connor loved it. He'd missed this playful bantering they used to do, easily flirting back and forth. A fondness washed over Connor that he knew would never go away, every word Oliver spoke to him warmed him up in the best ways.

“Well, I do have photographic evidence...” Connor trailed off. He was referring to countless photos on his phone that he knew Oliver was aware of. Pictures snapped of Oliver coming out of the shower, out of bed, in his torn up pajamas from college and of silly outfits tried on in thrift stores. Their relationship was still alive and well on his phone. Moments captured in selfies and brief video clips.

Connor wondered if Oliver's thoughts had gone in the same direction, mentally flipping through all the times Connor had snuck a photo of him or initiated grossly domesticated photos of them eating breakfast or updating Instagram about their latest date. Whatever was running through Oliver's head made him drop the files from his lap, uncaring where they landed, and standing up to Connor's level, taking his face in his hands and pressing their lips together in a bruising kiss.

Connor had no time to be stunned or relieved with Oliver's lips moving hot and rough against his own. Throwing logic out the door, Connor pushed forward, closing the gap between their bodies and moving his mouth along Oliver's, kissing back fiercely with months of restrained need and want collapsing like a poorly built wall. A stuttered gasp left his lips as they parted to invite Oliver's tongue in, shuddering pleasantly as it slipped past. The taste of morning coffee and the smell of Oliver's aftershave was addicting, Connor became forceful, hungry... and Oliver seemed to be allowing it. His fingers clutched to the back of Oliver's neck, bringing them impossibly closer, exchanging harsh breaths during quick disconnects.

Oliver moaned in his mouth and Connor felt his blood run south, giving a whine of his own as Oliver's hands dragged down his neck and shoulders, pressing against his chest before descending lower, fingering the hem of Connor's sweater. A finger or two slipped underneath the garment, touching Connor's warm skin.

“Ollie,” Connor groaned desperately, lips wet and tingling. Their movements slowed, Connor's hands caressing down the sides of Oliver's face as their lips separated with a quiet wet noise, breathing hard, tasting each other's air.

Oliver's eyes fluttered open, meeting Connor's gaze.

Connor didn't know how to react. Just because Oliver started this, didn't mean he intended to take it further. Maybe he was testing Connor, maybe he had a slip in judgment. Connor had a brief flashback to the time, last year, when Oliver had kissed him against the wall of his apartment. He was supposed to be distancing himself from Connor then, was he having the same problem now? Connor's adams apple bobbed anxiously, waiting for a response, his fingers lightly massaging the hairs at the back of Oliver's neck.

Connor studies Oliver's eyes, hoping to find the answer to his inner worries, but all he finds in the returning stare is want. A look Connor is very used to deciphering: blown pupils, brows relaxed, stare fixed. But they also reflect an uncertainty, like he shouldn't have kissed Connor, but unlike last time, with those stupid, adorable soapy hands, Oliver isn't running away, he isn't explaining away his actions.

When Oliver's eyes flick down, hands resuming in their tugging on Connor's sweater, Connor lets himself pretend for a moment that everything is normal, and that Oliver wants _\-- needs--_ him just as much as Connor does.

Oliver's grip on the hem of Connor's shirt tightens and Connor takes a breath, bringing a hand around to take hold of Oliver's chin, tilting it up to face him once more.

He leans in, reconnecting their lips on a soft caress, feeling Oliver's resolve crumbling as he kisses back, lips only, nice and slow.

When they part, Connor speaks, low, with an edge of authority.

“Take it off.”

And Oliver obeys without pause. Connor took a step back, lifting his arms to help Oliver in the discarding of the material, grinning a little when the thing finally is tugged off and tossed in a dark corner somewhere.

Oliver's hands are on his chest at once, re-familiarizing himself with the layout, fingers pressing against each dip and curve of muscle and skin, thumbs accidentally, or maybe not, rubbing over Connor's nipples a few times.

Connor's head falls forward, resting on Oliver's shoulder, arching into Oliver's hands as they continue lower, tugging on his belt buckle.

Connor latches his mouth to the juncture of Oliver's throat that meets his collarbone and Oliver moans deliciously, one hand disappearing from its exploration to thread into Connor's hair, gripping hard.

“Connor,” Oliver finally speaks, voice needy and rough. Connor almost growls, hearing his name spoken like that after so long ignites a fire in his lower belly that makes him act on pure lust. He nips hard at the skin he's been sucking, surely leaving a mark and smirks gleefully at the “ _ah_ ,” from above and presses his tongue flat, licking up the side of Oliver's neck and behind his ear where he groans hotly into. His hands travel down to Oliver's lower back, pulling him flush against Connor, molding their chest and hips and thighs together.

Oliver's jaw drops in a silent keen, which Connor doesn't miss, his face still pressed to the side of Oliver's head. He nuzzles his nose into his hair, gripping Oliver's waist and snapping his hips forward, both of them letting out breathless moans, the feeling of their hard lengths pressing together through layers of cloth beyond arousing. So Connor does it again, rolling his hips, grinding against Oliver and panting roughly as Oliver meets him halfway, shamelessly rutting through the material of their pants. Connor's hands grope Oliver's ass, squeezing and guiding Oliver along as his hips snap forward again and again and _again._

“ _Ahh, haa... Connor..._ ” Oliver begs wantonly, unaware that he'd been bending backwards, the force of Connor's thrusts knocking him off balance slightly.

Connor finally pulls back, hands flying up to the collar of Oliver's suit jacket and shoving it down his arms, appreciating Oliver's help in shaking it off and letting it pool at his feet. Oliver takes Connor's face in his hands again and kisses him like they never stopped, sucking on Connor's bottom lip while the aforementioned struggles to dislodge buttons on the cotton shirt that he can no longer see. The kiss is wet and messy and mostly teeth but it drives Connor insane with desire, the familiar feeling of Oliver surrounding him, touching him, is almost too much to handle.

Once the dress shirt is finally gone, followed immediately by pants and underwear, Connor is about to drop to his knees to do what he's been craving for months, when Oliver stops him with a firm hold to his shoulders.

“This is just a one time thing,” he blurts out, panting loudly and erotically. Connor blinks, looking down at their tall arousals and back to Oliver. He only allows a second or two to pass in contemplation.

“Okay.”

“I mean it,” Oliver follows up, catching Connor as he's lowering himself. “This... we're just fucking, nothing else.”

A pain shoots through Connor's heart but he doesn't pay attention to it.

“Meaningless sex, huh?” Connor gives a fake smile. “I can do that,” he lies.

Oliver nods, and there's an awkward silence suddenly. Connor shakes his head, clearing it, kissing Oliver again, conveying everything he felt into it: desire, frustration, hope. His lips travel down, past his jaw, neck, chest, licking and nipping at Oliver's gorgeous abs and stomach, continuing around his cock, ignoring it for now and relishing in the desperate whine from above.

Connor's hands feel up Oliver's thighs, continuing to firmly ignore Oliver as he kisses around his pelvis, biting at the sensitive skin of Oliver's inner thigh and grinning as he flinches away. When Oliver's hand falls on top of Connor's head, grabbing his hair and yanking it, Connor gasps loudly, eyes closing in bliss and coughing out an amused groan.

“Something you want?” He teased, looking up at Oliver's flushed face, his own penis twitching at the sight.

“Connor- _ah!_ ” Oliver's head falls back as Connor surges forward, giving Oliver's length a long lick under the shaft, ending it with an exaggerated flick of his tongue off the head that has Oliver's breath audibly hitch, his hold on Connor's hair clenching painfully.

Connor repeats the torturous lick, dragging his tongue up to the head and back down, going lower and sucking Oliver's scrotum into his mouth carefully, feeling those strong thigh muscles quiver under his hands. Oliver's free hand flies to his mouth, stifling a cry and looking down at Connor's work, feeling himself come completely undone as Connor's tongue descends even lower, pressing the wet muscle along Oliver's perineum.

Oliver almost screams, the sound coming out high and loud before dissolving into a choked groan. Connor's eye lashes flit up to see Oliver biting his hand, gaze wild and unabashed. He doesn't break eye contact as he kisses back up, taking hold of Oliver's cock and giving the head an experimental lick. Oliver thrusts forward and Connor leans back teasingly, smirk sharp.

“Connor,” Oliver warns weakly. His hand on Connor's head slips to his neck, directing him forward. “I will fuck that smirk right off your face.”

Connor blinks in pure shock at that line, while a new wave of arousal shoots through his body straight to his weeping cock. When did Oliver get so... mouthy?

Fuck this “meaningless sex.” Connor just fell in love all over again.

“Do it,” Connor challenges, almost forgetting to open his mouth as Oliver quickly pulls his head to meet his dick. Connor takes it all in his mouth, removing his hand so his lips wrap snug around the base and Oliver moans without restriction, low and long.

“Yes, _fuck,_ Connor,” he gasps, eyes fluttering closed and jaw dropping in ecstasy. Oliver retreats so his head is almost out of Connor's mouth completely before pushing forward again, repeating the process with building momentum, fucking Connor's face.

Connor takes it eagerly, tongue dragging along the bottom and opening his throat to take Oliver in deep every time. His hands wander back, squeezing and rubbing Oliver's ass again, his fingers tracing along the cleft and finding the tight entrance and probing it lightly, sending bolts of heat into Oliver's cock with each hard rub that just _barely_ slipped inside him.

“Oh my _God... Connor_ ,” Oliver babbled, his legs shaking. He's thrusting faster, his cock head hitting the back of Connor's throat every time, making Connor weakly realize that he's highly out of practice and squeezing his eyes shut in concentration when suddenly Oliver slows, pulling his penis out with a dejected moan.

Connor gasps wetly, trying to follow the muscle to slurp it back in mouth but Oliver gives a tug to his hair again, forcing him to look up.

“I'm not wearing a condom,” he breathlessly explains, face pained.

The silence only lasts a beat. “I'm still on PrEP,” Connor says, eyes hazed and unfocused. Oliver was so close, _so close_ , he could taste him and Connor _needed_ him back in his _mouth,_ what was he _doing?_

Oliver's stare shifts to incredulous. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Connor says it like it's obvious, standing weakly and taking Oliver's face in his hands, brushing their noses together. It wasn't like he was going to swallow anyway (unfortunately), they've had unprotected oral before, Connor just got into the habit of getting Oliver right _on the edge_ before finishing him off with his hand.

“Now please, Ollie, fuck me on this basement floor.”

Oliver laughed. Connor felt his heart warm; it'd been so long since he heard the rich, jovial sound of laughter from Oliver.

He almost said it, even took a breath to prepare himself, but Connor held back, biting his lip instead.

_I love you._

When they arrived from the basement together, an hour later, clothes and hair disheveled, all eyes turned to them.

Oliver gave a nod and smile, a little manic, as he took a seat on an empty spot on the couch. Connor rubbed his hands together awkwardly, remaining standing.

An awful silence passed around the room, the students visibly restraining from the urge to break out into giggles or accusations.

“Connor, why don't you have a seat?” Michaela gestured to the plush arm chair in the corner of the room.

Connor shook his head politely. “I'm good,” he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, wincing slightly.

Oliver hid his victorious grin behind his hand, fiddling around on his laptop as something to do.

“So,” Asher spoke loudly, clapping his hands on his thighs before standing up, walking over to Connor.

“Success?”

“What?” Connor shot back, eyes wide.

Asher gave him a look. “The files I asked for. Surely after spending over an hour down there you two were able to find _something_.”

“Oh... no, nothing,” Connor's lips pulled down into a helpless frown, shrugging.

Asher raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “Nothing?”

Connor shrugged again, running a hand through his hair, wondering how crazy it looked. _Oliver your newly found hair pulling kink will be the death of me!_ Connor chastised in his brain, shooting daggers at the back of Oliver's head.

“Why the hell did it take you an hour to find nothing?”

Connor clapped his hands together, breaking the tension a little. “How about we get back to work before Annalise comes out here and kills us all?” He proposed, smiling sarcastically at Asher as he pushed past him, picking up a random file on the coffee table and flipping through it.

Asher, thankfully dropped it and they all returned to work, Connor and Oliver exchanging a stare across the room before looking away with knowing smiles.

A part of Connor hoped this random hookup would be the start to getting back together, or at the very least discussing why Oliver broke up with him, but again there was radio silence. Connor wasn't sure how to go about confronting Oliver anywhere except at Annalise's house, which couldn't be done thanks to the walls having ears.

Then one night fate dealt him a hand, in the form of a paycheck. Annalise had called Connor into her office before the student's left.

“Where was Oliver tonight?” Annalise asked Connor.

Connor almost replied with, “How should I know,” then remembered that her and probably Frank and Bonnie too, weren't aware they had split up. Sure his “co-workers” knew but obviously the seasoned professionals wouldn't care about their student's personal lives.

“Ah, he wasn't feeling well, told him to stay home and rest.”

Annalise sighed, exasperated and slightly fond, her brows relaxing. It made Connor's insides boil. Since Wes had started biting on her ankles, Annalise's interest turned to Oliver, and he seemed to be her favorite. She always treated him the best and would actually thank him for his work, something the law students had never heard directed toward them, no matter how far they bent their backs for her. It made Connor sick with worry that the more Oliver took to Annalise, the more he'd be willing to do for her...

She turned over an envelope. “Could you deliver this to him?”

Connor's pulse raced as he took the paycheck, his thoughts shifting suddenly. He was going to hand deliver this to Oliver, this was perfect. He had been looking for an excuse to visit Oliver's apartment for weeks (especially after their little “meaningless sex” in the basement), and this paper was his golden ticket, so to speak.

“No problem,” Connor nodded, forgetting himself and grinning fiendishly. Annalise cocked an unamused eyebrow and Connor's smile fell.

On the trip to Oliver's, Connor deliberated how to bring up the topic of their relationship... if Oliver really, truly wanted to stop seeing each other, or if he was confused or... what. They hadn't talked about it (except that time Oliver rambled at the dinner table, but Connor couldn't remember most of it).

Talking was never one of their strong points, sex was though, and anything between was casual.

Connor hesitated outside Oliver's door, fist poised to knock. Secrets and lies aside, did Connor and Oliver have anything in common, besides their sexual chemistry?

Connor swallowed, lowering his hand and tapping the envelope against his leg. They loved each other, wasn't that enough? They liked the same TV shows and listened to each other complain about work... but there was always this crevasse between them, this unbreachable gap that caused a lot of silent staring. The silence was never awkward though, just questioning, curious, as if Oliver was waiting for Connor to say something. Oliver was always waiting for Connor to speak, never prying, it's what made living with Oliver easier with Connor's past horrors.

Connor shook his head, knocking loudly three times and taking a steady breath. He was over thinking this. All he had to do was be honest and open... well, as open as possible, or as open as Oliver wanted him to be.

Connor frowned. Maybe this wasn't the best time to talk, he hadn't given himself enough preparation. Maybe he should start writing note cards to himself.

The sliding of the deadbolt snapped Connor out of his musing, controlling his face into something relaxed as the door swung open, revealing a wet, bare chest and loose pajama bottoms that were hanging onto Oliver's hips for dear life.

Connor's mouth went dry, unable to meet Oliver's eyes right away, transfixed on the freshly showered body proudly on display. Oliver's feet were naked, too. His toes, long and bony as always, were sticking out from the cotton pool of the pants, too tall for his legs (or maybe just hanging too low on his waist).

“Can I help you?” Oliver's voice sounded amused.

Connor took his time bringing his eyes back up, devouring every detail of Oliver, from the pattern of the PJ pants, to the droplets of water still sliding down his skin, to the way he stood, his weight on one foot and leaning forward to rest his hand on the door arch. He was smiling, Connor noticed with a thrill once he finally found Oliver's eyes... behind his glasses.

“I just, ah,” Connor brought up the envelope, turning it in interest. “Came to deliver your paycheck.”

Oliver hummed in a considering way, eyes sparkling something mischievous as he extended his hand.

Connor handed over the envelope. The exchange was silent yet electrifying. Oliver didn't even look at the parcel, eyes glued to Connor's.

Finally, after a beat, Oliver spoke. “Would you like to come in?”

“Yes.”

Connor surged forward, strides long and heavy, compelling Oliver to step backwards as Connor advanced on him, slamming the door shut behind them and pulling Oliver in by his slick shoulders for a bruising kiss.

Oliver dropped the envelope and wrapped his arms around Connor's middle, fisting his hands into the material of Connor's jacket as they stumbled backwards, mouths hungrily working against each other.

Oliver grunted sharply when his back connected with a wall, pushing his hips forward and smirking at the sound Connor made in turn.

Connor kept their lips connected as he pulled his jacket off, making Oliver's hands move to do something more useful, like unbottoning the shirt Connor had on.

Once Connor's chest was exposed Oliver forced Connor to bend back, kissing down his neck and collar bones before latching his mouth over a nipple. Connor's jaw fell, eyes closed and groaning in a high pitch that Oliver chuckled at, tongue swirling around the sensitive nub and gently biting down before moving onto the next one.

“ _Oliver_ ,” Connor whined, hands uselessly gripping his shoulder and neck.

Oliver peeked up at his name, his glasses foggy. They stared at each other for a moment before Connor slipped Oliver's glasses off, looking around and tossing them onto the nearby couch.

Oliver straightened up, pressing their naked chests together, noses brushing.

“Top or bottom?”

 _Oh my God_. Connor's hands felt down Oliver's arms to his sides before resting over Oliver's ass, going under the thin material of the pajama pants and making them slip down a couple more inches. Connor squeezed the soft flesh, pointer fingers dipping low, getting close to Oliver's hole but _not quite_ touching it.

Oliver gasped against Connor's lips, arching his back so his ass pushed out, only to have Connor pull it back in, rolling his own hips against Oliver's.

“I do love your ass,” Connor growled lowly, fingers slipping lower and finally pressing against Oliver's entrance for emphasis.

Oliver tried to hum noncommittally but he choked on it, struggling to keep a straight face as Connor continued doing lewd things with his fingers. He began working on Connor's pants as he spoke.

“Show me how much you love it.”

Connor's hands left Oliver's butt to grab his hand, pulling him to the bedroom and nearly throwing Oliver onto the mattress, crawling over him as Oliver scooted back against the headboard.

Connor's lips brushed Oliver's ear. “I'll do more than show,” he whispered, nipping the lobe afterward.

“Turn over.”

* * *

 

Connor couldn't believe it happened again.

He flopped back onto the bed, having disposed of his condom and basking in the silent afterglow, listening to the sound of Oliver's breathing, loud and rough, matching it with his own panting.

Connor didn't know how to bring it up. Was this just another... meaningless sex thing to Oliver? Why had he let Connor into his apartment so easily, so willingly? Did _he_ want to talk about it?

Connor turned his head, observing Oliver's profile. His eyes were closed, lips curling only slightly, blissed out from sex.

“Hey,” Connor tried, voice hoarse.

Oliver's head lolled to the side, raising his eyebrows curiously.

Connor licked his lips, eyes falling down, observing their positions and hating how none of Oliver's body was touching his own.

“So, where were you today? Everyone was curious.” Connor threw in that last bit, not wanting to sound worried or caring or... interested in Oliver's life at all, because he wasn't sure what was appropriate still.

“I picked up a second job,” Oliver answered, rolling over and standing, eyes squinting as he scanned the floor. “Well, kind of. I'm freelancing now.”

Connor watched, old fondness warming him at the sight of Oliver blindly looking for his underwear. But the warmth left as Oliver did find what he was looking for, pulling his briefs up and covering himself, sitting on the bed and creating an even greater distance between him and Connor.

“Ah, that's good...” Great, even. Hopefully more work meant less time at Annalise's... which also meant less time seeing each other. Connor didn't like the thought of that, less Oliver in his life.

He sat up, awkwardly fiddling with the hem of the blanket. A painful silence stretched between them, Connor fidgeting and wondering how to bring up _them_ while Oliver stared at the wall, features controlled and inquisitive.

“So, about these... past couple weeks-”

“I think you should go,” Oliver interrupted, staring down at his lap. “I have work in the morning and you have school.”

Connor gaped, closing his mouth wordlessly, shock evident on his face.

“Okay... if that's what you want.”

Oliver only nodded and Connor swallowed the lump in his throat, pulling the blanket off himself and stiffly gathered up his clothes.

Connor didn't prolong it. He knew the drill; get dressed quickly, don't make eye contact, don't linger at the door.

But Connor did stare at the bronze 303 in the hallway, his jacket tangled in his arms and his untied shoes loose and uncomfortable around his feet. He stood there for a few minutes more, hoping Oliver would open the door, invite him back in, explain what was going on, but to no avail.

A horrible flashback came to Connor as he stood there, of the last time he waited outside this door, clothes wadded up in his arms, heart beating in trepidation. But this time, Connor didn't know why he was here, why Oliver pushed him out.

Connor finally turned and walked, taking the elevator down and dressing himself fully in the small space, and continued walking, all the way to his apartment. Being alone with his thoughts was dangerous, it only confused and upset Connor. When were they gonna talk about this? It wasn't like Oliver could avoid it forever... and Oliver had to bring it up first, he _needed_ to. Connor didn't know if he could, if he had the guts to, or right to.

So days went on and Connor remained silent, the weird tension was back whenever Oliver and him were in the same room. Connor's mind swam, wondering what Oliver could be thinking about. His eyes were always glued to his laptop or to the TV as a news segment played, or diligently onto the eyes of whoever was speaking to him.

It drove Connor insane.

Then it happened... _again._ The Keating Five were having a party at Asher's apartment after a win (a case that nearly brought everyone to tears because of the challenges they faced during the process), loud music and booze abound. Connor knew he had to keep up the charade of being sober but didn't feel like drinking even if he wanted to. He hung out in the backyard, away from the pulsing music and his friends all having a good time. Connor had never felt so alone, watching his classmates enjoying themselves, forcing a smile and politely declining to Michaela's offer of shots and making a quick escape when she turned to Oliver without missing a beat.

Connor took his phone out, huffing and wondering when it would be an appropriate time to go home, when he heard the back door swing open and closed.

He went stock still as Oliver stumbled down the steps, meandering toward Connor with a drunken grin plastered on his face. Normally the sight would have made Connor laugh, pulling Oliver close and helping him along, placating his nonsensical words and relishing in the unarmed smile.

This time, Connor just felt angry.

“Heeey, you,” Oliver sang, standing a little too close to Connor.

Connor nodded, keeping himself guarded. Fucking Oliver, coming out here drunk, talking to Connor like nothing was wrong, that there wasn't anything happening between them. Connor couldn't even bring up the one thing he wanted to talk about here, because Oliver was shit faced. Connor wondered if he'd done this on purpose, losing himself in alcohol so it'd be impossible to discuss this... thing between them.

“What are you doing out here, all by yourself?” Oliver swayed on his feet, hands stuffed into his pants pockets.

“Just thinking,” Connor replied cryptically, looking off into the neighbors yard, anywhere but into Oliver's soft eyes and parted lips. He pocketed his phone.

“Mm...” Oliver hummed. Connor felt fingers brushing his wrist and closed his eyes, biting his lip. He wanted to yank his hand away, he wanted to step away from Oliver. But instead he remained rooted, letting Oliver take his wrist entirely and press his body against his side, lips brushing his ear.

“You know, I've been thinking about the other night...” Oliver trailed off suggestively.

Connor's eyes snapped open, turning his head and finding himself impossibly close to Oliver's face.

“Yeah? And?” He tried to come off annoyed, but his reply was airy and soft, brows relaxing from their previous glare. Talking now while Oliver was drunk wasn't the best plan, but Connor would take it.

A sloppy smirk spread across Oliver's face. Connor swallowed wearily, smashing down thoughts of how hot Oliver looked right now.

“I can't stop thinking about how hard you gave it to me,” he whispered. Connor's jaw dropped.

“Really?” This time Connor was aggravated, letting it slip into his tone. Of course Oliver was talking about the sex. Of course he was avoiding the subject. Connor wanted to walk away right now, stupid drunk, horny ex-boyfriend. Then a thought struck Connor:

This is how Oliver feels.

During their year of officially being a couple, this is how Connor acted. He avoided talking about work, about Sam and Sinclair and all the shit Annalise put them through and instead offered up sex. Connor always saw the frustration in Oliver's eyes, the pain of choosing between want and closure and guilt. Guilt that Connor was putting him through, because he wasn't ready to disclose information with Oliver yet, so he offered sex, fucking, pleasure to distract both of them from what seriously needed to be addressed.

Connor was struck so hard by this revelation that he missed what Oliver had said, but snapped back into focus when Oliver took his hand and pressed it against the seat of his pants.

Oliver's eyes slipped shut, his smirk melting into a lazy smile. Connor's own cock stiffened as he felt the outline of Oliver's erection through his pants, biting back the carnal urge to moan and restraining his fingers from clamping down, but allowing Oliver to move his hand, rubbing himself against it, gasping softly in his ear.

“Touch me, Connor.” Oliver licked the shell of his ear and Connor trembled.

“Oliver, please...” he begged. Connor hated how weak he was, how much he needed Oliver in every sense, how much he couldn't deny him.

Their eyes met and all the air left Connor's lungs. Oliver's eyes were blown, iris wide and black, reflecting lust, but when his brows lowered, Connor also saw intent. Deep down Oliver knew exactly what he was doing. He knew this wasn't right, but he couldn't help it anyway.

They both knew they shouldn't be doing this, but here they were, fumbling with buttons and zippers and pressing close under the light of the moon, the music coming from the apartment fading into a dull bass line.

Connor swallowed Oliver's groans as they reverberated inside his mouth, tongues erratic and pleasantly sinful as they slid together. The heat passing between them distracted Connor from the cold night air that touched their exposed privates.

Connor wrapped his arms around Oliver's neck for support as Oliver took both their cocks in one hand, frotting hard and fast. It was dry and rough, boarder line painful as the corona ridge of their cock heads rubbed together, but Connor couldn't get enough anyway, hips snapping in time to Oliver's tugging.

“God, you're so fucking hot, Connor,” Oliver spoke brokenly against Connor's lips, ducking his head to stare down, watching how they moved together. “... I can't stand it.”

“ _Oliver,_ ” Connor nearly sobbed, lips parted and moaning obscenely into Oliver's hair. Oliver was relentless, rutting and jacking them off way too fast.

For a while that was it, no words, just the sound of their clothes rustling, the obscene sound of their cocks rubbing together, and light gasps passed between them. Connor's legs wobbled, struggling to remain standing as Oliver worked. He didn't think about why they were doing this, or what was currently going through Oliver's head, only focusing on the burning indulgence and the need to cum.

His grip around the collar of Oliver's sweater tightened as Connor felt his orgasm unraveling, features screwing up in white hot pleasure. Connor threw his head back and screamed as he came, riding out each pulse and shuddering as Oliver kept it up, over stimulating him.

Oliver latched his mouth onto Connor's throat as he followed, biting hard, muffling his own cry of release. Connor gasped, feeling Oliver's teeth sinking into his skin sent an unfamiliar thrill down his spine that made every hair on his body stand.

“F _-fuck_ , Ollie,” Connor's hand flew to the back of Oliver's head, holding him at his neck. He was rewarded with Oliver sucking on the flesh there, surely leaving a large mark.

Oliver finally slowed, his teeth giving one last pull on Connor's skin as he disconnected, relinquishing his hold on them both and stepping back to observe the mess they made.

Oliver wobbled where he stood, Connor noticed. He had forgotten for a minute there that Oliver was drunk and he was painfully sober. The shame fell over Connor like a tidal wave as Oliver looked down, tucking himself back into his pants without a sound, face unreadable. Connor figured he should do the same, making himself decent and sighing pitifully at the new stain on his jacket. He took it off and folded it over his arm.

“Can I drive you home?” Connor tried to break the awkward silence.

Connor wasn't surprised when Oliver shook his head, but it didn't make it hurt any less.

* * *

The tension in the Keating house was palpable again, the law students making it obnoxiously obvious how much Connor and Oliver's drama was annoying them. Asher couldn't crack jokes without Connor snapping for no reason except his own damaged ego, Laurel had reverted back to wallflower status, and Wes just sighed. All the time. Connor wanted to tell all of them to get a grip and stop being so affected by his own problems but knew that was selfish of him, and it took a cornering by Michaela to make him see that.

“Connor, you look horrible,” she supplied. They were at her apartment for a “study party” but it was just her and Connor. It was an intervention, Connor realized bitterly.

“Thanks, constructive criticism is always appreciated,” Connor muttered darkly, his nose stuck in a book. To be honest, he knew how much he'd changed, physically. He hated how Oliver was was affecting him like this, how he couldn't be an adult and handle this... but Connor wasn't sure what to do in a situation like this; he's certainly never had to think about the possibility of sleeping with your lover over and over _and over_ again without any of the “lover” benefits.

Connor was tired, he had purple bags under his eyes from late nights going over how to confront Oliver and what the conversation would be like, he had lost weight because when Connor was stressed he drank alcohol instead of eating food, and he had a permanent scowl on his face because he just didn't care what people thought about him anymore.

Connor barely turned in work on time, he took Annalise's rants and complaints toward him silently and would brood about it later.

“You're neglecting yourself, it's worrying me,” Michaela broke Connor's flow of thought. She spoke bluntly, but with an edge of softness that conveyed real concern. “You're the only person I like here, so when you act like this, it ruins the whole group dynamic.”

Connor scoffed, but the corner of his mouth pulled up naturally. “You're gonna make me barf.”

“I'm serious,” Michaela scooted a little closer to Connor on the couch, resting her hand on his book and lowering it to his lap.

Connor sighed through his nose, bringing his head up to stare ahead at the TV.

“What about Asher?” He deflected, throwing a knowing smirk at Michaela. “You like him too.”

Michaela leaned back, rolling her eyes. “Don't try to change the subject, I'm trying to be nice here.”

“You're such an angel,” Connor replied sarcastically, his tone didn't hold the same bite as usual though. His body was slouched forward, hair untidy and unwashed. All Connor needed to complete the look of pathetic grad student was a blanket around his shoulders.

Michaela stood, heading to the kitchen. “Want coffee?”

“I always want coffee,” Connor leaned back on the couch cushions, making himself comfortable.

“So, tell me what's going on,” Michaela asked from the kitchen, getting right to the chase. Connor huffed, closing his eyes and rubbing his hands up his face and into his hair, pulling on it.

“I hate myself,” Connor mumbles, caving. Michaela walks back into the living room as the coffee machine works. She curls up on the opposite side of the couch, tossing Connor a throw pillow, which he takes with a small, vulnerable smile.

He tells her everything, from the email to the breakup, to the hookups and how Oliver has been behaving through all this. How he wants to say something, but is too afraid. Voicing his thoughts, his worries aloud comforts Connor in way that's almost liberating. His voice spills out and he can't stop, ranting at first before dissolving into frustration and helplessness, shaking his head after it's finally over, turning his empty coffee mug around and around in his hands.

“And the worst part,” he mutters, fiddling with the cup's handle. “Is, I'm convinced he's doing it on purpose. This is how I've been treating our relationship and he's giving me a taste of my own medicine.”

Surprisingly, the first reaction Michaela had to offer was, “Wait, you've been treating Oliver this way?”

Connor groaned and rolled his eyes, turning to Michaela sharply. “Because I didn't know what else to do,” he spoke in a rush. “Oliver is getting more and more suspicious every day and the closer I get to him, the harder it is to keep this all a secret. I'm losing my damn mind.”

Michaela sighed. Last semester it was her who offered telling Oliver the truth, but after seeing how he had reacted upon Laurel telling him that Frank might've shot Annalise... the student's had this silent agreement to leave Oliver out of their “night-time business.” But Connor knew Oliver best, they all trusted him to make the right decision, in time. Whether that was continuing to be silent or tell the truth... Michaela trusted Oliver but the thought of _anyone_ else knowing their crimes made her nauseous with fear.

“So, you've been using sex as a weapon again,” she observed blandly.

Connor's head fell back, smile awry. “Better than piling on more lies...” he sighed, closing his eyes. “I'm honestly starting to lose track of them all.”

A heavy silence fell between them. The furnace kicked on before Michaela spoke again.

“What are you going to do?”

Connor's eyes slid open, staring at the ceiling. He was exhausted, angry, and confused. This wasn't the first time he'd considered telling Oliver everything, but it was the first time Connor seriously weighed the possibility.

After a few minutes more, Connor answered, voice quiet. “We'll see.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was having crazy trouble writing this chapter, and i'm not happy with it (and i decided to change my whole ending so THAT'S been fun, basically starting my outline from scratch). so, im posting what i have right now for feedback. i know now how i want it to end, but i need some motivation to finish this BEFORE THE PREMIERE FFFFFF.
> 
> thanks as always to glitterbb for putting up with my bullshit with this chapter, as well as Blink_Blue for also being my moral support through this train wreck haha.

When Connor walked out of his last class for the semester, the first thought he has was: _wow, it's been 4 months and Oliver is still on his “break.”_

He should've been thinking about how he only had two more semesters of school, how he needed to start studying for the Bar exam, and what the fuck he was going to do with his 3-month summer vacation.

He could go home, Connor played with the idea on the bus ride back to his apartment. Really, truly give Oliver some space and time to think. He quickly erased that thought though; leaving Oliver alone for so long made Connor's imagination wander into dark territory. Oliver could realize how shitty of a boyfriend Connor was and find someone else, or Annalise would convince him to do a more sinister crime than hacking.

Connor dropped his messenger bag to the floor as he entered his apartment, shutting and locking the door behind him. He grabbed a beer from the fridge and popped the tab, collapsing like an elephant onto his couch and groaning wearily. He took a pull from the bottle, kicking his shoes off. Connor took in the state of his apartment. There was still boxes from moving out of Oliver's scattered around his living room. His TV was on the coffee table because he didn't have any other stand, and the couch (a crummy, brown loveseat that he had offered to sell to his sublet but was declined, no surprise), was the only furniture in the room.

_What a mess._

Connor's phone buzzed in his pocket. He shuffled and yanked it out, unlocking it and reading a text from Asher.

_Hey man, I know things are still weird with you and O, but he's hosting a get together at his place tonight. Kinda a end of the semester shindig. It wouldn't be a party without you so, you should totally come_

_Or I could_ totally _stay here where I can actually get shit faced_ , he texted back, which was Connor's original plan of action.

Asher's reply was quick: _getting drunk alone? Bro... I can't let you do that. We'll all be there too ya'know. We wont leave you hangin_

Connor tossed his phone on the cushion next to him, huffing irritably. It would just be awkward, all six of them together... and what if Oliver got drunk again? Connor didn't know if he could handle another “meaningless fuck” with Oliver, he already felt himself teetering on the edge of insanity as it is.

He brought the bottle up, watching the perspiration form on the glass. He shouldn't... he really shouldn't go. But if he didn't, what would Oliver think? What if Oliver wanted him to come, to finally discuss what they've been dodging. What if Oliver needed the company of others to relax him. No, that wasn't right, Connor knew Oliver would rather talk about private matters in... private.

Connor took his phone back up, checking the time and opening up messenger, staring at the last reply from Asher.

_Okay, but tell me when everyone arrives. And we all leave together unless I say, deal?_

It look longer for Asher to respond. Connor abandoned his phone, downing the rest of his beer and walking into the kitchen for another before he got a reply.

_Whats going on?_

Connor rolled his eyes. Like he was about to tell Asher anything.

 _Don't make it weird. Just tell me when everyone arrives, and I'll be there._ Connor liked to think he'd gotten smarter from all these encounters with Oliver, but he honestly didn't know what he'd do alone with the man, especially if Oliver came on to him again.

 _Whatever you say,_ was Asher's helpful response.

It was around 8 that Connor received a text announcing everyone was at Oliver's. Connor had showered, brushed his teeth, gelled his hair back, trimmed his scruff, and deconstructed his closet looking for an outfit. He wasn't dressing to impress, more so how he looked before the semester started, before this craziness with Oliver started and he had let himself go. He needed to look good, to get his old confidence back, if he was going to be in the same room with Oliver.

Tonight, Connor conceded, he'd be looking out for himself. He laid one of his favorite suits out. It was navy blue and tailored to his body impeccably. Connor was done wallowing in self pity and letting it affect how he presented himself. If he couldn't convince himself to corner Oliver tonight that was fine, at least he'd look better than everyone there.

Standing in shiny black shoes, Connor knocked on the door of apartment 303, casually pulling his hand through his hair to keep it back when Oliver answered the door.

“Oh, hi,” Oliver's eyes crinkled in question, as if he wasn't expecting Connor.

Connor swallowed and flashed a brilliant smile, one he was used to but hadn't broken out in a long time. Putting on the picture of confidence, he lifted the six pack he was holding.

“I brought snacks,” Connor announced smoothly, the bottles clinking together.

“Uh...”

Connor cocked an eyebrow. He saw movement inside and heard chattering over hip hop music. Connor lowered the beer, sighing dramatically and about to waltz in himself when Michaela's head popped up behind Oliver's shoulder.

“Connor's here!”

A positive chorus of voices made Connor chuckle. Even if his classmates were just being polite, it was nice to be wanted somewhere.

Connor pushed past Oliver, giving his attention to his friends inside and ignoring Oliver's dumbstruck face.

Everyone was dressed casually, was the first thing Connor noticed. Not that he was surprised, it was house party after all. He set the beer on the counter next to a bowl of hard candy, meeting Asher's eyes on the opposite side. Asher popped a piece of candy in his mouth.

“Nice jacket,” he pointed out, causing Connor to pull at a seam unconsciously.

“A little over dressed though, don'tcha think?”

Connor smirked, leaning on the counter in a relaxed position, and popped the first button of his dress shirt.

“How about now?”

Asher rolled his eyes and it made Connor snigger.

Connor would eventually take the jacket off and roll his sleeves up, appearing a little more informal. No one else commented on the suit, but Laurel was sending him questioning glances for a while.

“I'm bored, what are we doing here, again?”

Connor plopped down next to Michaela on the couch, who was watching Wes and Asher play a racing game on Oliver's Playstation. She turned and gave him an odd look, darting her eyes up above his head to focus on someone else for a moment. Connor didn't need to turn his head to know that Oliver was nearby.

He had been quiet, shooting Connor strange glances since he arrived. It was a little awkward, but thankfully Laurel had brought a friend along, a guy she met near campus (his name was Mike and he didn't attend Middleton, but worked in construction), so some of the attention was taken off him to question the new guy.

Michaela leaned in, but didn't bother whispering.

“What are _you_ doing here?”

Connor tilted his head curiously. “Asher invited me.”

Michaela huffed, looking down and smoothing the wrinkles out on her skirt.

“Was I not wanted?” This time Connor did turn his head back, catching Oliver's eyes immediately before he turned around, heading back into the kitchen where Laurel and Mike were.

“It's not like that,” Michaela started, sighing in relief as their audience left. “I just didn't know if you and Oliver had patched things up yet... have you?”

Connor groaned, scratching the back of his neck. “No, I would say things are still pretty problematic.”

Michaela's eyes softened and although Connor appreciated the sympathy, it kinda pissed him off.

“Speaking of problematic,” he grinned and Michaela's eyes widened comically, “I could use a drink.”

“What?”

Connor stood, taking the few steps it required to enter the kitchen and opening the fridge, plucking a bottle out and rummaging through Oliver's silverware drawer for a bottle opener.

When he turned around, all eyes were on him, it almost made him laugh, since the only person in this room who thought he had an actual addiction was Oliver.

“What are you doing?”

Connor looked up at Oliver, surprised to hear him actually speak to him for the first time tonight. He lifted the bottle obviously before setting it down, cracking the top off.

Oliver was right beside him a moment later, voice hushed. “Connor...”

“One drink isn't going to kill me,” Connor more or less announced to the whole room, irritation coloring his tone.

Oliver brought his lips in, forming a thin line.

Connor tried not to let himself linger on Oliver's reaction for too long before taking a sip. He felt eerily calm, ignoring Oliver's concern was easy while he played the part of the asshole law student he remembered rocking before meeting Oliver, before getting stuck in Annalise's web.

But when he brought the bottle back down and Oliver touched his hand carefully, he physically jumped, staring at Oliver's hand, which didn't move, but flinched lightly, keeping his fingers to Connor’s skin in a feather-like touch.

“Are you okay?” he asked quietly, so no one else heard him. Something in Connor shifted and he relaxed, unaware that he'd been tense with his shoulders back and his arms awkwardly out.

“Yeah,” he answered simply, giving Oliver his full attention. Their eyes locked, silent messages passing between them. It was... comforting. Lately all Connor had been associating Oliver with was his complete disinterest in them as a couple and his reignited passion for his job. So, it was nice to looked at with that familiar expression of care, worry, even if it was wrongfully directed.

Oliver removed his hand, backing away. “Okay.”

The room collectively returned to normal, Connor waiting until he was alone in the kitchen to finally meander his way back to the couch, sitting between Oliver and Michaela, bringing his feet up, tucking them under his own legs. Oliver turned his head just as Connor did, their eyes meeting before looking back to the TV. Connor smiled as Asher wiped out on screen and made a fuss about it.

The night proceeded in a more comfortable manner, no one was walking on egg shells and Connor finally relaxed, leaning heavily on Michaela and snickering with her over a joke Wes had made comparing Asher's sex life to the video game. It might've not been that funny, but in the moment, with a few beers in Connor and Oliver getting along with everyone and in turn everyone _not_ prying into his business, it was nice.

As the hours wore on, Connor looked around the room and realized, this is what normal people do. Classmates, friends, hanging out and celebrating the hurtle of law school halfway into completion. Not worrying about what criminal they'd be forced to defend next, no murders and cover-ups looming over their heads, their future's bright and clear, instead of cloudy and indefinite. Connor wondered what Michaela, Asher, Wes and Laurel were all thinking about; if they could push aside the things they've all done for one night and have a guilt-free conscious to live in the moment and be happy.

Connor couldn't do that. No matter how many times he'd said, “screw it,” he could never one hundred percent enjoy life while the mistakes of his past haunted his dreams and affected his day-to-day life. Connor's moral compass had been remagnetized and he could no longer see what was up or down, right or wrong, whether it was best to lie and lie, or tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but... so help him, God.

Laurel and Mike left first, admitting it was getting late and they still had Annalise to deal with in the morning. Wes left shortly after that, passing the controller to Oliver and giving Connor a small, subtle wave and lingering look. Connor had nodded, understanding Wes' _you alright?_ message and smiling to himself.

When Michaela stretched and hopped off the couch, announcing, “time to face the real world,” Connor sunk further into the cushions. He didn't want to leave. Connor was finally back in his safe spot and although it was under different circumstances, he couldn't dismiss how content he felt, how this ever present weight lifted from shoulders. Connor knew that'd all return as soon as he stepped outside that door, back into the real world, as Michaela said.

“You guys go ahead,” Connor spoke when Asher gave him a knowing look, remembering the deal they made over text message.

Michaela's eyes darted from Oliver, who was reentering from the kitchen, putting snacks away, to Connor. “Are you sure?” At least she had the decency to sound casual.

Connor nodded.

They idled by the door a moment more before Oliver saw them out, bidding them a good night and a “thanks for coming.”

When he shut the door behind them, Oliver turned, looking at Connor once before continuing his cleanup, plucking bottles off the coffee table and taking them into the kitchen to rinse out.

Connor drummed his fingers on his knees, watching Oliver move around. He licked his lips and pondered if _this_ was the right time.

“Do you wanna watch a movie or something?” Oliver suggested, finished with the bottles and wiping his hands on a towel.

“Um, actually,” Connor turned his body slightly to face Oliver, unwilling to stand up from the comfy couch. “I was wondering if I could just get the rest of my stuff back.”

He wasn't sure why he went with that as an opening. Connor looked off to the side, unsure. Even Oliver looked odd, his brows wrinkling. Connor had left a few small things, inconsequential really, things he didn't necessarily need: his cologne, a tie or two, and a textbook from his first semester that he didn't need anymore.

Oliver crossed his arms, walking slowly into the living room. “Like...?”

“Well, I left some stuff in the bathroom.” Connor slipped his legs out from under him. “My toothpaste, I think. My cologne...”

“Oh, you're not getting that back,” Oliver chuckled lightly, plopping on the far end of the couch. “I, ah, might've used it all up.”

Connor sighed, trying to sound annoyed but his lips curled up despite him. “Is that why you've been smelling so good?”

Oliver huffed out a laugh, looking up to the TV screen which still played the video game's main menu on repeat.

“Can I at least have my ties back, then?” Connor leaned sideways on the couch, his shoulder sinking into the plush cushion and bringing one knee up.

Oliver grinned, also readjusting himself to face Connor. “You can take the black one, but the green striped one stays with me, I like it too much.”

Connor bit back the urge to give a serious retort, having too much fun in this little back and forth game. Plus, it was opening Oliver up, relaxing both of them without bringing up sex.

“It is a nice tie... let me guess: you wore it out on a date and the guy immediately took you home.”

Connor spoke the last part in a rush, regretting the word choice but acting otherwise, tilting his chin up and raising his eyebrows curiously. He didn't want to bring this up, he wasn't sure why he said it, but deep down there was a bubbling interest, the need to snoop. Had Oliver been seeing other people? Or was he just using Connor to get his frustrations out on?

Oliver didn't like the question either, visibly bringing himself in and slipping his eyes down, but not completely avoiding Connor.

“Um, close. I wore it to interview a new client and got the job so...” he trailed off. “What about you?” Oliver looked back up and surveyed Connor's eyes, looking for something incommunicable. “Seeing anybody?”

Connor scoffed, looking at his hands wringing out on his lap and wishing he had a drink. “Like I have time to date.”

“How about fuck around, then?”

It was spoken casually enough, but the force of it addled Connor, causing his head to give an irritated jerk as he met Oliver's gaze once more.

“No, only with you apparently,” he spat, frowning.

The sudden silence between them was stifling, pressing down on Connor until it felt like he was underwater... pulse beating in his ears and everything slowing down. They had been doing so well tonight, civilized and mature, no flirting, no strange looks. But it had all just felt too... fake. Too nice. Now that everyone was gone, maybe now it was time to address the elephant in the room.

Oliver sighed, hiding his face behind his hands before pushing the heel of his palm against one eye. Connor watched resolutely and waited.

“I don't want you sleeping with anybody else...” Oliver finally murmured, dropping his hand and dragging his head up.

Connor blinked. “Well, you should have thought about that before breaking us up.”

“I never said-” Oliver groaned, closing his eyes and popping his knuckles. “I never said we were... done. I just said I needed a break.”

Connor's brows shot up so high they nearly touched his hairline. He threw his arms out like he didn't know what else to do.

“Maybe you should have explained the rules of a 'break' a little more to me because, I don't think that entails sleeping with your – I don't know, ex? – constantly.” Connor's voice wavered and he hated it. He swallowed. How the fuck did Oliver think Connor would take a “break”?

Oliver let out a shaky breath, avoiding Connor's eyes and looking up at the wall clock.

“It's late, let's discuss this in the morning.”

Connor stood up. “No, we're talking about it now.”

“Connor,” Oliver stood up too, his voice calm. “I'm exhausted, it's nearly 1am. I can't argue like this.”

While they had a stare down, Connor realized Oliver did have a point. He was tired too, and a little woozy from pre-gaming at home, and then drinking here.

Connor crossed his arms. “Morning is Annalise though.”

“Then we'll talk after, promise.” Oliver looked into Connor's eyes, unflinching and honest. Connor sighed, his shoulders sinking into it. He wanted to believe Oliver, but a small part of him wondered if he was just putting this off, hoping they wouldn't actually have time after Annalise's to talk. What if Oliver had a client to deal with and had to leave early? There was too many scenarios... and if Oliver refused to bring it up, when would Connor? He needed a good moment to segue into, “Oh, by the way, I assisted in the murders of two people and have lied to you through this entire relationship, want some coffee?”

“Let's talk about it before Annalise,” Connor mumbled, looking at Oliver's shirt.

The ticking on the clock filled the silence in the room. Connor shuffled on his feet and finally pulled his head up to give Oliver his eyes.

Oliver swallowed, looking off to the side and then back to Connor.

“Fine.”

Connor nodded, dropping his arms and stepping back, looking around for his jacket before scooping it up and heading for the door.

“Where are you going?” Oliver asked in a sigh, his voice weary and tinged with annoyance.

Connor turned, looking from side to side. “Home?”

“How are we supposed to talk in the morning if you go home?”

Connor tensed, his mouth working uselessly as he tried to find a way out of the situation, but came up short.

Oliver groaned, one hand rubbing his face. “We're not having sex. You're just sleeping over.”

Connor looked at the couch then back to Oliver. Neither of them said a word, Connor nodding in agreement and Oliver turning away, heading to the bedroom.

Connor followed, dragging his feet along, tossing his jacket on the couch and continuing forward, leaning on the archway into Oliver's room. He watched him enter the bathroom and listened to the tap run as he began brushing his teeth. Of course Connor didn't have a tooth brush, so when he walked up next to Oliver at the sink, he just reached into the cabinet behind the mirror and pulled out his mouthwash without asking, taking a swig from the bottle.

Oliver shook his head, eyes rolling up as he leaned over and spat into the sink. Connor followed suit, turning the tap on and bending over further to slurp water in his mouth directly from the faucet, rinsing his mouth out, and spitting again.

A tiny smile formed on Oliver's face, remembering this old routine, remembering how disgusted he'd been at Connor the first time he saw him do that. “ _Why don't you use a cup like normal people?”_ He'd asked. Connor had shrugged. “ _Saves dishes.”_

Connor returned the gesture, his lips twitching, and headed back to the bedroom as Oliver started taking his medication out.

He tugged his pants and shirt off quickly before climbing into the bed, what used to be his side, and pulled the covers up, turning away from the bathroom. It took Oliver finishing up his nightly routine and walking around the apartment to lock the door and turn off the lights, before Connor finally allowed himself to relax into the comforters and pillows. He listened to the rustling fabric of Oliver changing into his sleep wear and slipped an arm underneath the pillow, propping it up against his head more.

Connor felt the mattress dip behind him and turned his face to further squish his nose into the plush pillow, closing his eyes and inhaling a calm, steadying breath, but all he smelled was Oliver. He was surrounded by Oliver, and even though subconsciously he loved it and was comforted by it, his brain had other ideas – smarter ideas. What was he doing here?

After what felt like hours laying there, unable to sleep, his mind racing, Connor turned around, his eyes catching Oliver's immediately; he was still awake as well.

Connor didn't move first, but he did meet Oliver halfway, letting himself be engulfed in his arms and snuggling into his chest, relaxing into the embrace and suddenly feeling extraordinarily tired.

When Connor woke up, it was to the sun rays streaming in past the curtains, making him squeeze his eyes shut and pull the blanket over his head. He groaned loudly as he stretched, hearing his knees and toes pop, unwinding from his curl of sleep.

A wave of disorientation pressed over Connor as he finally opened his eyes into sleepy slits, taking in his surroundings. This wasn't his room, and this bed was far too comfortable to be his as well.

Then it hit him, the night before, sleeping over at Oliver's, the promise to talk in the morning.

Connor sat up so fast it made his head spin. Oliver wasn't here.

“Oliver?” Connor called out, his voice rough and dry.

His heart was beating hard in his veins as he rolled off the bed, grabbing his pants and shoving his hand into a pocket to grab his phone, checking the time.

10:41.

Connor stared at the screen in shock, his jaw dropping and his blood suddenly running cold. They were supposed to meet at Annalise's house at 8am sharp.

“Oliver?” Connor tried again, quieter, he lifted his head weakly, finally standing up and clutching his phone.

“What the fuck...” Connor mumbled, anger sneaking into his tone as he marched around the apartment, his head whipping around the small space. No note, no coffee, nothing.

A sarcastic laugh spilled out of his mouth before sucking in a sharp breath, the phone is his hand giving a creak of protest as his grip tightened around it.

“You fucking...” Connor shook his head, disbelief and hurt exuding from every pore of his body. “Son of a _bitch._ ”

In a hasty blur Connor got dressed, stepping into his shoes and slamming the door behind him as he sped down the hall, taking the stairs fast enough to stumble more than a few times, anger fueling every step he made toward the Keating Law Office.

By the time he strutted in through the front door, his lungs gasping for air and his clothes soaked with sweat, Connor was livid. His limbs shaking not just from the overexertive run, but also with pure, hot enmity. His voice rang out before he even shut the door behind him with an exaggerative _bang_.

“I want to know--” The words spilled from Connor's lips in a shout, rounding the corner and spotting everyone in the living room, including Oliver. “Who _the fuck_ thinks it's okay to jerk people around, and make promises, and be _happy_ going about your day _knowing_ you're screwing somebody over.”

All eyes were on Connor, who stopped in the entry way, hands balled into fists at his sides and smiling like a maniac. His crazed eyes landed on Oliver, who's jaw fell, eyes wide. Connor snickered, but it wasn't in humor.

Connor pointed at Oliver. “The expert,” he clarified, voice alarmingly quiet, wavering like he'd start yelling again. “Did you guys know I got into Stanford?” His face contorted with the memory, lips pulling back to bare his teeth as he seethed, “Yep,” and dropped his accusing hand.

Oliver put his hands out in front of him. “Connor...”

Connor shook his head, his limbs aching to pace the room. “No! Don't talk to me. You can all take a good hard look at me right now,” he swung his arms out wide. “Because I am done with this bullshit.”

“Connor.” This time Oliver stood up. Connor took a step back even though Oliver wasn't moving toward him.

“Oliver, the expert of _literally_ fucking me over, impersonated me and declined my acceptance into Stanford,” Connor nearly shrieked, scanning the room and taking in everyone's shocked expressions, feeding off them, rolling his eyes in sarcastic delight. Connor was too busy listening to his heart slam in his ears, and hadn't noticed until now how uneasy the room had become, how his classmates and Oliver watched him with unblinking eyes, hands frozen in their task. But now, like the student's head's were on a string, they collectively turned to Oliver, some just as quickly (Wes and Michaela) turning back to him with strained faces.

It all happened in a second, with Oliver nearly interrupting Connor with his broken voice.

“Connor stop this!” With shaky legs, Oliver finally stepped up to Connor, who forced himself to push his shoulders back, chest out, chin high, yanking his hands away when Oliver tried taking them.

“Oh, you want to talk now? Now that everyone knows you're not as innocent as you act?” Connor spat out in a rush, watching Oliver's panicked eyes cloud over with frustration. They were only about a foot apart, too close for comfort but Connor refused to back down. Not this time, no more.

It was liberating, voicing the emotional turmoil Oliver had dragged him through all these months, so much more satisfying than when he told Michaela. So much more pleasurable than every orgasm Oliver tore out of him. To just, lay it all out and tell Oliver exactly what he was doing to him, Connor hoped for some kind of back fire, excuses to pour from Oliver, or an apology.

But Oliver was silent. He wasn't shaking like Connor, wasn't throwing any insults out. His eyes weren't even angry, and somehow that pissed Connor off even more.

“Are you even a human being?” Connor hissed. “Do you feel nothing anymore? Do you get off on...” he wracked his brain for a logical thought, hands gesticulating between them. “...watching me try to resist you and talk about this stupid, _stupid_ problem, only to finally fucking– manipulate me into sleeping with you every single time?”

Oliver swallowed hard, his eyes shiny. Connor looked away, coughing out a disbelieving laugh.

“What the hell is going on out here?”

All eyes turned to Annalise, Bonnie and Frank, standing in the room for who knows how long.

Connor looked back to Oliver just as he had, their eyes meeting at the same time. His eyes plead with Oliver to say something, to take him out of the room, to leave, to sit back down, anything. But silent he stood, staring back at Connor with sad fucking eyes, brows high and defenseless, nose tinged pink.

Connor huffed out a sigh, his shoulders drooping and lips parting in defeat, looking down at Oliver, the space between them. He wasn't the bad guy here. Connor would never let Oliver feel this way, this betrayed and hurt and...

His head snapped back up, sniffling, agitated with his stinging eyes and the lump forming in his throat.

“I quit,” he croaked out, turning on the spot, raking his fingers through his messy, tangled hair as he walked out the door.

* * *

 

Connor was honestly surprised when he heard knocking on his door. After blowing up at Annalise's, he walked back to his apartment. It took him an hour but he appreciated the time alone to reflect on what he'd done. But now he was exhausted, mentally and physically drained. After taking a long shower, feeling the urge to break down in the hot, nonjudgemental spray (and squashing it down with aggressive scrubbing), Connor curled up in his bed and planned to sleep for the rest of his life.

But whoever was at the door persisted to knock, louder and more obnoxious the longer Connor ignored them. With a growl he threw his blanket off, pulling a shirt on, and stomping to the door, unlocking the deadbolt with a flick of his wrist and pulling the bronze knob with a little more force than necessary.

“Nope,” Connor said, making to swing the door shut on Oliver's face but a hand smacking into the wood stopped it.

“I'm sorry,” Oliver nearly shouted, his palm pressing on the door still.

Connor gave Oliver a once-over before scoffing. “You're _sorry_?”

Oliver took a breath before speaking. “Let me in.”

“Give me a good reason.” A small part of Connor still aches to do just that, let Oliver control the conversation, give in to whatever he wants. And although he's come down from his high of finally exploding at Oliver, there's another part that is itching for a fight, to tear down any excuse of Oliver's and shove everything he's done to Connor in his face.

Oliver's eyes narrowed and Connor can't help but think how tired he looks, how sunken his cheeks look and how angry his whole demeanor radiates. But his eyes, despite the glare, are weak and hopeful, like he's forcing the heated look. Like he really wants to be here. But Connor doesn't know what to believe anymore.

“Because I love you, and we need to talk.”

Connor freezes, his grip around the door knob tightening.

“That's not fair.”

“I think you made it pretty clear back there that everything is out on the table, Connor,” Oliver spoke quickly, clearly, an edge in his voice. “We're talking about this, now.”

Oliver pushed himself forward, forcing the door out of Connor's hand and causing him to step back as Oliver entered.

Connor sputtered. “Why are you acting so high and mighty when I've been the one demanding we talk this out since the beginning?” He shut the door behind them and crossed his arms.

Oliver spun on his feet, advancing on Connor. “Define 'the beginning.' Because it sure as hell isn't when I deleted that email.”

“Speaking of,” Connor deflected, his fingers clutching his sides. “Why did you break up with me? And no more bullshit of 'I just needed time,'” Connor's voice dropped sarcastically low as he mimicked Oliver's words.

“It's not--” Oliver groaned, throwing his head back and pulling his hands up from the back of his neck through his hair. “It's not bullshit.”

Connor thought about tapping his foot to show how he was waiting but thought better, standing still and silent instead.

Oliver took a breath, his eyes shifting, as if he were reading his thoughts before speaking.

“There's... always been something between us. You know there has,” Oliver started, voice calm. Connor's fingers pressed even tighter into his ribs.

“Ever since that... breakdown you had. Something's been off... You changed a lot, in a good way,” Oliver licked his lips. “But there was also... moments where you wouldn't even look at me.”

Connor swayed on his feet, keeping his eyes on Oliver as he spoke.

“And when you first mentioned you might be going to jail...” Oliver brought his arm up, palm out towards Connor. “You said it so seriously!” Oliver's voice jumped suddenly. “And then you proclaimed you loved me out of the blue, as if to... soften the blow.”

“Oliver,” Connor took a step forward and hesitated. He was the one pissed off here, he wouldn't comfort Oliver. He swallowed. Connor wanted to say he meant it, that he said it there and then because, despite his own heart smashing against his chest in uncertainty, he didn't know if he'd ever see Oliver again, and the older man had to _know_ how important he had become to Connor. Before it was too late.

Oliver had to know that he meant everything. The body count rising on top of the criminals he and the Keating 5 were defending, and Annalise above all of them, placating their worries with cryptic promises and threats... In the midst of all that darkness, Oliver had been a shining light, something to look out for and keep Connor steady and sane. What was Connor supposed to do without him?

“I didn't want to break up with you,” Oliver said softly, eyes cast to the floor. “I just thought... spending some time apart would be beneficial. Give you time to think about us and... if you still want this.”

Connor looked affronted. “Of course I still want this--”

“Then why are you keeping secrets from me?” Oliver interrupted. “I know this is new for you but... in a relationship there is trust. I trust you,” he said seriously, eyes focused. “Which is why I never pushed you, never tried to force you to talk... I'm always going at your pace and honestly, it's really fucking hard.”

“You know what's _really hard_?” Connor back peddled. “Is being the one 'broken up with,' and constantly wondering where the hell we stand when you're always... teasing me and leading me on with these hookups.”

“And you have to believe me when I say I'm sorry about those,” Oliver spoke with strong sincerity in his voice. Connor chewed on his bottom lip, shaking his head slowly.

“Connor,” Oliver sighed, eyes pleading. “I know it's not an excuse– there is no excuse for what I've put you through, but I've never felt like this with anybody. I know what I did was unacceptable and damaging, but I couldn't stop myself. You...” He took a steadying breath. “I know this sounds stupid but you're addicting. I can't stop thinking about you, I can't stop talking about you... it's actually really pathetic how much you've grown on me and it's just getting worse.”

Connor felt dizzy with how fast his blood was pumping through his body. “What do you mean by 'getting worse'?”

“Because I'm letting you do whatever you want. I blindly follow behind you and allow you to keep your secrets and your life to yourself... and sometimes I feel like I'm just along for the ride; coasting with you through this shit show without any consent or understanding of what the hell I've gotten myself into. What I've done to you is-- the worst and I'll do anything to prove how sorry I am and… for putting you through that.” Oliver licked his lips, wringing his hands out.

“Deleting that acceptance e-mail was impulsive and wrong of me, but at that moment I felt like I had no choice,” Oliver continued. “Connor, I would do anything for you, I would even move to California with you, under better circumstances.”

Oliver shifted his weight from one foot to the other, rubbing his arm. Connor watched and waited, sensing Oliver wasn't done.

“I know you want to run away, from what I don't know, not really. But I won't be dragged into this hole you're digging for yourself. I need to finally start thinking for myself and making my own decisions.”

Connor wanted to scream. “By working for Annalise, you're already in the hole, Oliver,” Connor spoke lowly with a tinge of panic. “She's dangerous.”

Connor winced, he hadn't meant to say that aloud. He peeked up at Oliver and watched him turn, taking a few steps back before pacing forward again.

“Let's talk about Annalise,” Oliver more or less declared, his brows low and lips parted.

Connor waved his hand in a _wait a minute_ gesture.

“First you need to tell me if you still want this relationship.” Oliver thinking for himself and acting out was all fine and dandy, even if he was using Connor as a reason and excuse. Connor could let Oliver be a little selfish, if that helped, but it needed to end. Connor either needed them done and over right now, or he needed assurance that they would make this work, together. Connor had to know if he was making the right decision; the truth was bubbling up inside him, ready to spill forth.

The silence Oliver gave only lasted a second, his face falling and brows knitting together. “God yes, Connor. I'm just scared of losing you because we can't seem to communicate.” His mouth opened and closed wordlessly, hands moving awkwardly.

“Whatever… obstacles come our way, we can figure it out together. I'll be honest with you, if you're honest with me,” Oliver finished quietly.

The sound of someone out in the hallway leaving their apartment echoed into Connor's living room.

Connor sighed loudly, his body relaxing and his fingers finally loosening from his shirt.

“You mean that?”

“Yes.” Oliver said firmly, even as he brought a hand up to wipe his shining, red eyes. No tears fell but Oliver's fingers were wet when he brought them down. Connor's heart twisted and he suddenly marched up to Oliver, his hands moving up to take his shoulders or his face but stopping short, balling into fists between them as he glared at Oliver with all his being.

“I need you to promise me that you're honest, and that you'll trust me,” Connor spoke behind his teeth, swallowing down more words that threatened to betray him. Why did it have to be now? Why was Connor's heart screaming and his brain spinning with every possible outcome to confessing... How would he start, or where, or could he.

Oliver nodded as he spoke, “I trust you, Connor.” His hands twitched too, like he also wanted to reach out and grab Connor.

“I need this to be real, and good…” Connor gasped wetly, barely able to hear his voice with his pulse beating against his ear drums. “And I need you to _promise_ me, that whatever happens, we’ll get through it, we’ll figure it out, because we love each other, right?”

Oliver's pained face was beginning to blur as Connor realized he was crying. He sniffled and swallowed down a sob that bubbled inside his throat as Oliver's hands surround his face, holding him forward and steady.

“I promise this is real,” Oliver's voice was gentle but shaking. “We’re in this together. No matter what, I'll be here.”

Connor shook his head back and forth in Oliver's soft hold. “You can't say that, you don't know,” he whispered, his hands shaking.

Oliver's brows knitted together in worry, his eyes wet and nose pink. Defeat fell over Connor like a lead blanket, slumping forward slightly, but not falling. “Oliver, please...”

“Connor,” Oliver attempted after swallowing several times, his Adam's apple bobbing harshly. “What's going on?” His low voice reverberated in Connor's ears in a desperate plea, thumbs reaching across Connor's cheeks and wiping away the unwanted tears that fell heavily.

His wall was collapsing, Connor could feel it. Every lie carefully kept in line, every distraction he deployed, every bloody, cold memory from the past year welled up all at once, making him shake, his insides crumbling in and making him nauseous.

“Everything is so fucked up,” Connor sobbed, his hands closing around Oliver's and squeezing his eyes shut, trying to focus on the floor beneath his feet and not on the room spinning around them.

“Breathe, Connor,” Oliver's voice brushed against his face, soft and calming. Connor took a difficult inhale through his nose and exhaled from his mouth, opening his eyes and focusing on the soft brown of Oliver's.

“... I don't know where to start,” Connor admitted pathetically, voice small.

Oliver waited patiently while Connor got his breathing back under control, his hands eventually moving from Connor's face to his shoulders, gently massaging the tense muscles there.

Finally, after what must have been minutes (but felt like hours), Connor sighed, nodding, pulling himself together, wiping his nose and looking between Oliver and the floor.

“That first night...” Connor rasped, swallowing and licking his lips. “When I came back here... I wasn't high. I lied to you about that, the whole addiction; it's fake.”

Connor's eyes flicked quickly to gauge Oliver's reaction, waiting for an outburst but receiving silence instead. His eyes betrayed him though, Oliver gazed back at Connor, hurt and confused. But he was patient, waiting, forcing himself to hold back.

“Sam Keating…” Connor shook his head, deciding to just be blunt. “Wes killed him, and we helped cover it up. That night I came over… was right after we had burned his body.”

Connor’s blood ran cold with pure fear from the wide-eyed look of horror Oliver judged him with.

Oliver's mouth moved: _what_? but no sound came out. Connor's mouth went dry.

“And- and I hacked up his burnt body… with a crowbar. Then we-” he screwed his eyes shut and made a sound like a scared animal as Oliver stepped back, away from him. Connor felt like he might fall through the floor without Oliver's hands on his shoulders.

“We stuffed the remains in garbage bags,” Connor's voice rose to a shrieking whisper as he continued. “And Michaela was fucking, opening the bags back up and looking for her engagement ring--”

“Wait, why--” Oliver stumbled out, his voice barely a whisper.

“And after the whole thing,” Connor went on. “I tried going to the police with Michaela. _I'm not a murderer, Oliver_ ,” Connor growled out desperately, nearly interrupting himself, hoping Oliver would understand. He took a sharp inhale and continued before Oliver could step away any further.

“But then Laurel told on us to Annalise and she stopped us.”

“Why did Annalise stop you?”

Connor sighed tiredly, noticing Oliver pop his knuckles and sway on his feet. He was still here, which was good, he wasn't getting angry, Oliver was trying to understand. He wanted to trust Connor.

“Because… Even though Wes killed him to protect Rebecca-- Sam was on top of her, strangling her--”

“Jesus,” Oliver spoke quietly.

“--it was Annalise's idea to get rid of the body and make it look like he ran away. She said it would strengthen the idea that he vanished because he knew he was guilty...” Connor rubbed at his arms. “I still don't know the whole, real story of why but, she keeps telling us that Sam killed Lila so, he deserved to die.”

“Do you think he killed her?”

“I don't know…” Connor admitted weakly. “He had plenty of motive, but there's no proof he was at the scene of the crime… We all think Annalise has some part in it, but we’re too scared to do anything about it… Besides,” Connor sniffed, wiping his nose. “She keeps on telling us she’ll protect us, that she’ll keep us safe… I don't believe a word of it, but the others seem to trust her.”

Oliver's slack jaw closed as he pulled a hand through his hair. “Why can't you go to the police now?”

“Are you kidding?” Unintended sarcasm slipped into Connor's tone. “It's been way too long, we’ll all go to jail at this point, no matter what strings Annalise pulls. We’re in way too deep to even consider that anymore. Besides…”

Connor looked away from Oliver's shaking head. He sighed, looking to the floor as he spoke again.

“Something even more crazy happened, recently.”

“Oh, God,” Oliver groaned softly, crossing his arms and clutching at his elbows.

And Connor told him about Sinclair, omitting the fact that Asher killed her. He wasn't sure why he didn't want to incriminate Asher, maybe it was because of how (unwillingly) close they had become. Connor knew Asher was sorry about what happened, and he carried the guilt with him every day (something he hadn't seen Wes do), not to mention his family disappearing from his life. Connor knew these weren't excuses to defend a murderer, but at this point Connor didn't care to understand why his sense of justice was completely warped… Even though deep down, he knew.

It was all Annalise. She was the root cause since the beginning, convincing Wes to become the mastermind because she knew how easily manipulated he'd be back then. Connor told Oliver all this, he told him about how Annalise had tried blackmailing Connor to shoot her by threatening Oliver's very life. He spoke about going back and trying to stop Annalise's bleeding wound because he would _not_ have any more blood on his hands, but also in a desperate act to save himself. Deep down, Connor grossly clung onto Annalise, wanting to believe her, letting himself be brainwashed because he didn't know what else to do. If Annalise died that night, where would Connor have ended up? How would he continue living this life without someone to herd him in the right direction?

At this point Connor was spitting, angry at himself for being so god damn weak, angry at Annalise and his classmates for all the shit they've put themselves through. Frustrated at every conclusion to this entire mess ending with all of them in jail, including Oliver. It wouldn't work, nothing was going to help, even pouring his heart out to Oliver, right now, wouldn't change anything.

Because even if they got away with this, the guilt would traumatize Connor for the rest of his life. Nothing would fix the damage done mentally. People were harder to trust, talking was becoming a near impossibility, even his relationship with Oliver felt like a lie.

It was then that it hit Connor, causing him to stop ranting abruptly. Oliver didn't deserve him, he didn't deserve this. This mess that Connor had become, that he'd always be. Oliver would have to dedicate a portion of his life to being _careful_ around Connor, to continually comfort him in the middle of the night from nightmares. To tiredly help him calm down from another panic attack that Connor was embarrassed to experience in front of the older man. To be forever patient and slow and…

Connor couldn't put Oliver through all that. It would be best to just… Let him go. Let Oliver live a normal, healthy life while his record was still (publicly) clean. The thought alone made Connor physically clutch his chest, his heart feeling like it was caving in on itself. But he'd get over it, Connor would have to. He needed to stop selfishly clinging to Oliver and using him as a crutch. He loved Oliver, God he’d never loved someone before. Connor thought maybe once, a long time ago, he knew what love was, but he was wrong.

Love was getting excited about moving in together, it was desperate kisses and constant eye contact during sex. It was willingly and happily going to doctors visits together and supporting each other without judgment. It was feeling warm and happy and carefree as Oliver held him in his arms.

Love was Oliver, staring him dead in the face.

And Connor was so scared, so _terrified_ of losing that love, that he had to let it go, before it ran away from him.

Connor's pupils shook as he studied Oliver, trying to read his mind, trying to steady himself as he prepared what to say.

“I think… it would be best to stop this.”

The silence that followed hurt Connor's ears. He stuffed his hands in his pockets when he realized he was wringing his hands out.

“Stop what?” Oliver's voice was wet and thick, low and quiet. It was a startling sound.

“This… us,” Connor mumbled, staring at the floor.

“No, Connor,” immediately Oliver was back in front of him, taking his shoulders again. Connor bit his lips to keep himself grounded, his hands balling into fists in his pockets.

“We can figure this out,” Oliver spoke sternly, nodding his head and trying to look into Connor's eyes. “I'm not mad… I'm happy you told me.”

Connor shook his head again, taking a shaky breath. “It's not that I think you're mad… I don't want you involved anymore.”

“You can't keep protecting me, Connor.” Oliver's hands slid up the back of Connor's neck. Connor shuddered. The touch was comforting, warm, and forcing him to bring his head back up.

“You're right,” Connor stared at Oliver's shoulder, just to avoid meeting his eyes. “Which is why we need to… stop this.” Connor didn't think he could say “break up,” even though that's exactly what this would be, for real this time.

Oliver's fingers pressed deep into the nape of Connor's neck. “That's not what I meant. I want to be here for you, _with_ you. I don't care about what's happened or what will happen. I love you, Connor.”

Connor took a deep breath. He had to be strong. He knew this was the best way to protect Oliver, to get him away from Annalise and stop hurting himself over Connor. Oliver would realize in time that Connor was all wrong for him, he didn't deserve Connor.

Connor finally looked into Oliver's eyes, holding his breath as he spoke.

“I don't love you.”

Connor felt his heart stop as Oliver's eyes widened, hurt, unbelieving, all of his insecurities flooding back in like they never left. Connor took Oliver's hands on his neck and brought them down.

“Please leave.”

“You're lying,” Oliver croaked, his voice wavering, like he didn't believe himself.

Connor swallowed, refusing to look away.

“No.”

Connor released Oliver's wrists, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Please leave,” Connor repeated, taking a step back.

Oliver shook his head, following Connor. “Connor-”

“Get out!” Connor snapped, letting the pain fuel the outburst. Something inside him felt wrong and broken, he pretended it was anger and let it take over his body, taking another strep back, shifting so the door was in view.

“Get out of my apartment!”

Tears were pouring down Oliver's cheeks. Connor's jaw clenched, holding in the desire to take this back, he needed to see this through. It was the only option now.

When Oliver wouldn't budge Connor turned and opened the front door, hastily walking back to Oliver and grabbing his arm. “Leave.”

“Connor wait, this isn't right!” Oliver begged while Connor forcibly led him out the door. “We need to talk this out, I don't want this!”

“Too bad,” Connor spat, his voice deep and cold as he shut the door on Oliver's face, snapping the deadbolt into place and immediately smacking his forehead against the wood. His jaw dropped in a silent scream, palms pressed against the door.

Oliver's voice is broken and sharp through the door. “You can't keep running away from your problems, Connor!”

“Go away,” Connor tried to yell, but his voice cracked.

“You can't just kick me out and expect everything to be okay.” Oliver's volume had dropped, but he still sounded urgent, sad.

“Think of yourself, Oliver,” Connor spoke to the door, sniffling and wiping his nose. “Stop worrying about me. Stop letting me drag you around.”

It was easier to talk to Oliver with a barrier between them, though Connor knew he needed to stop now, lest he unlock the door and pull Oliver back in.

“Just leave me alone…” Connor finished, forcibly turning away from the door and into his bedroom, so Oliver's words were just muffled noises.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: most of this was written on my phone. what is editing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gets dark guys, read the updated tags.
> 
> A note for new readers: I wrote the first two chapters before season 3 premiered, I’m publishing this one almost midway into the new season (around 3.07), but tried to not let it influence my original headcanons for Connor and Oliver (or any other of the characters mentioned here).
> 
> So, full disclosure: this is still my own take on season 3!

  
  


Connor sat in the center of his bed, legs crossed, and stared at his phone.

He'd been getting texts from Oliver... his phone buzzing throughout the days, continuous enough to make guilt and uncertainty bubble up in his chest. He hadn't been reading them... Connor set up his phone after the first text for the lock screen to just indicate who was texting, instead of showing the message. The little notification bubble next to Messenger indicated he had 11 unread messages.

Oliver had texted him 11 times in the past 3 days. Connor tugged his blanket further around his shoulders, watching his black phone screen with heavy eyes. Today was day 4 and so far nothing.

Connor didn't know why he was waiting, he wasn't going to read the text anyway. Maybe there was a messed up corner of his brain that thought, because Oliver was trying to communicate with him, that meant they were still connected, somehow. Maybe he just liked wallowing in his self-inflicted misery. Maybe Connor continued to watch his phone in the hopes of coming to his senses and realizing what he did was the only thing he could do.

Connor tried convincing himself he'd made the right decision, but it hurt. It hurt all over.

Just when Connor was about to chuck his phone, maybe go outside and get some fresh air, a series of quick, sharp knocks echoed through the apartment. Connor's blood froze, his head shot up, looking in the direction of his front door.

He sat and waited in the silence, heart pounding in his ears.

Connor jumped when the banging was repeated, accompanied by a voice.

"Connor! I know you're in there, get off your ass and answer the door!" Michaela's voice was muffled but loud in the empty apartment, Connor could only imagine how her shrill voice carried down the hall.

Connor scrambled off the bed, clutching his blanket and feeling the breeze on his legs as it trailed behind him. He felt like a child, realizing too late he should've left the large comforter on the mattress as he flicked the deadbolt and opened the door.

Michaela marched in before the door was fully opened, Connor sarcastically stepped aside and gestured her in. He wondered how many more times this week he'd allow people to flounce into his living room.

"What the hell is your problem?" She demanded, spinning around and advancing on Connor, who stumbled back until his back hit the door.

"Good morning to you too..."

"You haven't been answering my texts or calls, everyone thought you were dead or something." Michaela didn't acknowledge Connor's dry, sarcastic greeting. "Also, it's two in the afternoon."

Connor shakes his head, looking at the ground as he pushes past Michaela, his shoulder brushing hers. He collapses on the couch, bringing his legs up.

"What is it with you people and death?"

Michaela sighs, rubbing her forehead and slowly walking toward Connor, taking a seat next to him.

"Are you okay?"

Connor feels an eye roll coming and shuts his eyes, knocking his head back tiredly.

"Oh, I'm just peachy."

Michaela is fiddling with a loose thread on her sweater and Connor is trying to diminish a migraine he can feel approaching.

“Did you really quit?”

Connor scoffed. “I haven't been to that house since my little episode so yeah, I guess I did.”

“Have you heard from Annalise?”

“Nope.” Which was surprising, actually. Considering Annalise almost literally held Connor's life in her hands. She could threaten him to come back, send men out to scare him into keeping their little secret and not run to the police, which Connor wouldn't dare try. Maybe Annalise knew that, she knew how terrified Connor was to oppose her, despite the shit they'd all been through.

Realistically, why would Connor want to tell the police now? If he told the truth, he'd still get thrown in jail. If he tried to pin it all on Annalise, Frank and Bonnie would team up against him and make sure he'd suffer the death penalty. The thought alone made Connor shudder.

“So what now?” Michaela sighed harshly, exasperated. “Will you still attend Middleton? Are you going to move?”

Connor's head swung over to consider Michaela, brows high. 

“I don't know,” he snapped. “I haven't thought about it. I didn't actually… plan on quitting. I was caught up.”

Silence fell between them. Michaela rubbed her hands and Connor fondled the outline of his phone sitting in his lap. He felt like he was being interrogated. Maybe Annalise sent Michaela to check up on him, maybe she was wired; a live audio feed going back to the office. Maybe Connor was going crazy.

“So, do you want to come back to work?”

Connor coughed out a laugh, rubbing his hands over his face. “Not really.”

“Have you talked to Oliver about this?” Michaela asked timidly.

Connor's eyebrows fell, fixing Michaela with a tired glare. 

“Or… at all?” Michaela finished carefully, sensing she was in unwanted territory.

“You don't know?”

“Know what? That Oliver’s been stone silent since that day? The whole house is afraid to even talk about it.”

Connor blinked. “I broke up with him.”

Michaela’s eyes bugged out. “What? Why? I mean… I guess that's obvious, given what you blew up about in the living room.”

“Oh my God, Michaela. You don't know the half of it,” Connor spat condescendingly. “Why are you even bringing that up? It's none of your business.”

Michaela laughed sarcastically. “None of my business, huh? Is that why you called him out in front of all of us?”

“You think this is all my fault?” Connor was shaking, attempting to keep his voice low and not lash out. “I'm sick and tired of no one considering my feelings. How Annalise and the rest of you put Oliver on the pedestal of pure innocence and perfect worker, like we don't bust our asses every day for that undeserving bitch.”

Michaela put her hands out defensively. “I'm not saying that.”

“What are you saying?”

“I just wanted to check up on you,” Michaela smiled painfully, like she pitied Connor. “Oliver hasn't said anything, he keeps to himself, and no one knew where you were.”

Connor looked to the ceiling, shaking his head. 

“I just want to know what's going on.”

“I don't want to talk about it,” Connor grumbled, pulling the blanket around his shoulders tighter to his chest.

He wanted to ask more about Oliver. Why he was still working for Annalise, why he hadn't said anything… Would he go to the police? Had Annalise questioned Connor's whereabouts? Surely Oliver would tell her everything if she asked, he was so damn loyal to her and it made Connor's insides twist.

An uncomfortable silence filled the room, Connor glaring at the floor and Michaela fussing with her fingernails.

“Do you want me to go?”

Connor shook his head before he could think about the question. He'd been cooped up in his apartment for days, ignoring calls and texts, drowning himself in beer, and then whiskey. Michaela was too good to him, keeping a level head even when Connor snapped at her for no reason. She was good, the only good person left, the only one Connor trusted, besides Oliver. 

Connor took a shaky breath. “I broke up with Oliver because I didn't want him involved anymore…”

He felt Michaela watching him.

“But… he's still there. Working for Annalise, working under the same roof with murderers and liars,” Connor sighed, running a hand through his greasy hair.

“Can I say something?”

Connor nodded, staring at his lap.

“You need to talk to Oliver-”

“Already did.”

“And you need to realize he's a grown ass man who can make his own decisions.” Michaela finished as if Connor hadn't interrupted her.

That made Connor go silent. 

“I didn't know what else to do,” Connor nearly whispered. “I love him so much… But I'm so fucked up, we all are.” His head lifted tiredly to watch Michaela.

“We’ll never live normal lives, and I didn't want that for Oliver. He'd leave me first, once he realized…”

“Connor,” Michaela sighed, touching his hand. “He's still here though.”

Connor scoffed. “Yeah, because now he's loyal to Annalise. God…” He tilted his chin up and shook his head. 

“Did you tell him?”

She didn't need to elaborate for Connor to know what she meant. Connor took a steady inhale through his nose. “Yeah.”

Michaela stiffened, her fingers on Connor's hand wrapping around and holding on. Connor gave a weak squeeze.

“It's fine,” Connor started before Michaela could ask. “I don't think he’ll tell the police.”

They fell silent again. Connor knew what Michaela was thinking:  _ how do you know? _

And Connor honestly didn't know if their secret was safe with Oliver. Sure Oliver did his fair share of illegal activities, but murder and hacking into the police department were two very different things.

“You’ve thought about it, right?” Connor asked wearily. “What you’re gonna do after we graduate.”

Michaela shook her head with a tired sigh. “Not anymore. I used to obsess over my future…” her head lifted, staring at the wall ahead. “Being the top of my class, getting perfect grades. But now I’m just kind of… living in the present, I guess. Taking what Annalise throws at us, focus on my studies, counting down the days ‘til graduation. Sometimes I manage to pretend everything is fine and smile.”

Connor huffed a sarcastic laugh. “Doesn’t seem like a real thing. Like we’ll always be trapped at Middleton, always looking over our shoulders, forever stuck in this spiral of lies.”

Connor recalled the first day of class, eager to please, to stand out and work hard. How he’d wanted to impress Annalise and be an example of greatness, superiority to his classmates. He used to love the thrill of the case, the difficulty of defending the guilty. Connor was cunning, smart, ambitious, and ruthless. When he’d first read up on Annalise, he knew immediately he wanted to become a defense attorney. He strived for that no-nonsense, confident, vicious attitude with which Annalise tackled all her cases. It was impressive, to say the least.

But most of all, Connor wanted to be a lawyer to push through his insecurities. He was a worrier, like Annalise had told him all those months ago. He had moments of fear and self doubt constantly, and being incredible at sex wasn’t enough to sate his starving ego. Connor wanted to drown himself in work, difficult cases, stand up in a courtroom and lay out evidence neatly and fearlessly, making the prosecution fall to their knees in defeat.

Of course being a lawyer also came with a better moral compass. Some of these cases, people Annalise chose to defend were truly innocent, let down by the justice system. Connor couldn't deny the happiness and sense of humbling victory not just for the client, but for their families and the media, how the case would be forever documented and held up as an example.

This dream was once achievable, but now it seemed laughable. Connor was an idiot, deluded, and scared shitless of the real world. And the only thing good beyond Middleton was Oliver, whom Connor grossly clung to for his own selfish reasons. Now that Oliver was involved, Connor’s world was collapsing before him, and for once in his life, he didn’t know what to do.

“What happened to us?” Connor asked, almost rhetorically. 

Instead of answering, Michaela straightened her shoulders, turning to face Connor and pulling her legs up, crossing them on the couch.

“You should get out.”

Connor’s head twitched. “What do you mean?”

“I mean leave Philly. Start a fresh life.” The hope in Michaela’s eyes made Connor relax for the first time that day, cracking a sad smile.

“I don't know… I can think about moving all I want but when it comes down to it, I'm terrified of leaving,” his head fell down to stare at his phone. “I can't get along with other people, and I'd be leaving you, and Oliver…”

“I know what I said before.” Michaela thought back to that night where it was revealed that Connor might transfer and she’d sincerely said  _ don't leave _ .

She took a long breath. “But if you can get away, you should. You'd have my respect…”

“Why don't you leave, too?”

Michaela took a pause.

“Because I want to see this through. I want this to all end, and I want to be there when it does.”

“Then that just means I'll be running away.”  _ Just like Oliver said _ . 

Michaela gave a weak shrug. “Sometimes it's okay to run away, it's the only thing you can do.”

Michaela’s words resonated through Connor's skull long after she left, thoughts, ideas swimming around fast enough to make him dizzy. 

Running away wouldn’t solve anything… it could even potentially make things worse. If this all did go to shit, Connor would be a suspect who fled, that’d make him look bad, suspicious, cause for the police to go after him as more than just a witness to testify.

“Has Annalise asked about me?” Connor asked a few days later during a phone call with Michaela. He still hadn’t gotten any messages from Oliver, and he was still moping around his apartment.

Nothing felt right, his skin felt numb, his head heavy, going to sleep was near impossible and waking up felt worse. Instead of trying to figure out how to overcome how pathetic he was becoming, Connor let the negativity and doubt plague him, surround him until his shoulders sank and his clothes clung to his skin from days of not showering.

_ “No.” _ Connor heard shuffling on the other end and a gust of wind muffling the speaker.  _ “But every day she looks around the room and seems tense…” _

“I wonder if she thinks I’m gonna rat her out,” Connor half joked, pulling his fridge open and gazing into nothing. He needed to go grocery shopping.

A huff of air hit the phone.  _ “Are you?” _

Connor shrugged even though Michaela couldn’t see. He closed his fridge, transferring the phone to his other ear and pulling open the freezer, grabbing a carton of ice cream. 

“Maybe.”

_ “Connor…” _

“Relax, like I’d have the balls to do that,” he muttered, voice laced with self-contempt. 

Michaela sighed over the line. Connor could almost hear her heels clicking on the sidewalk.

_ “Asher and I are going out for drinks tonight, want to join?”  _ She changed the subject.

“No thanks,” Connor dug a spoon out of his cluttered sink, rinsing it off and sticking it in the carton, heading to the living room. “I got plans.”

Michaela scoffed.  _ “What? Eating ice cream and watching  _ Golden Girls _?” _

Connor landed on the couch and assessed the situation, looking up at his TV at the paused episode with Betty White’s face taking up the screen and the carton of neapolitan ice cream in his lap.

“Fuck off.” Connor was smiling though.

_ “Gladly,” _ Michaela snickered, the wind died down as if she’d stepped indoors. _ “I’ll talk to you later, keep me posted.” _

“Same.” Connor hung up, tossing his phone to the couch and tapping his spoon against the ice cream.

He looked at his hands, holding the cold carton, pale, dirt under his nails. His head lifted like it was made of lead and looked around his apartment, empty yet wrecked, clothes strewn about, boxes unpacked, books stacked against the walls.

Connor ran a hand through his hair and frowned at how greasy it was, wincing as his fingers got stuck on a knot, watching flakes of dandruff fall onto his shirt.

“Gross,” Connor mumbled, tugging at his shirt. He set the ice cream on the coffee table, ripping the shirt off and smelling it, wincing at the sodden B.O. and chucking the dirty shirt across the room. He took a deep breath, his hands clutching his shoulders and rubbing up the back of his neck into his hairline, scratching his dry scalp and watching the flakes of skin fall.

“Fuck this.”

Connor stood up, putting the ice cream back into the freezer and jumped into the shower.

Moving isn’t what Connor needed, leaving wouldn’t help anything. What Connor needed right now was a distraction. An excuse to leave the apartment, to focus on something besides what he’d done to Oliver, what he’d said, what would happen now…

Connor couldn’t move on stuck inside the four off-white walls of his shabby apartment, couldn’t convince himself that breaking up with Oliver, distancing themselves would be beneficial in the long run if he kept second guessing. There was an ever-present nagging in the back of Connor’s head that constantly reminded him how bad he was was Oliver, how Connor would never be good enough for him, how he’d always slow him down. Feeling these insecurities while they were together was diminished every time Oliver held him in his strong arms, placed gentle kisses along his skin, comforted him when Connor would wake up from another nightmare…

But separated, the negativity swarmed inside Connor’s body like a plague. It should’ve left when he pushed Oliver out the door, because he didn’t need to worry about fucking Oliver up anymore, right? Oliver was gone for good now, Connor didn’t need to worry, shouldn’t have to. And yet he couldn’t deny how he heart ached and how his body began collapsing into itself this past week.

Maybe time healed all wounds, but Connor was impatient, and right now he was hurting.

That’s how Connor ended up inside of a nightclub, near the Delaware River, far away from his apartment and Middleton.

Dressed to kill, hair combed back, shoulders straight, Connor made his way to the bar, pushing past bodies and ordering a shot of a bourbon. His teeth ground together as the brown liquid burned down his throat. He turned around, pressing his back to the bar’s edge, and looked out into the crowd.

This used to be Connor’s scene, before Middleton. If he wasn't looking for a man to go home with at a bar, it was losing himself in music and dim lights and bodies moving together. The deep bass pounded in Connor’s ears and reverberated through his veins, making his fingers tap against his thigh unknowingly. This was a place Connor used to easily lose himself in, easily get caught up in the energy of the people around him, dancing and grinding and sweating.

Pushing away his ambivalence from the whole situation, how he chose to cope with his stuttering heart and rambling thoughts, Connor stepped into the sea of bodies. He allowed himself to bounce around, go along with the push and pull of the crowd, closing his eyes and swaying side to side.

He focused on the burn of alcohol in his empty stomach, the colorful lights blinking, making him dizzy, detached, feigning joy. His body moved automatically, letting the beat of the music encourage his feet to step in time, waving his arms out as far as he could without touching anyone. He spun and moved with the people around him, feeding off their positive energy. As a body closed in behind Connor, melding to his backside and forcing him to slink along with the movement, Connor finally shook his head, cracking a grin and turning.

It was a girl, but Connor didn’t care, he indulged her, letting himself enjoy the moment, fascinated in her lascivious smile and clouded eyes. His head fell back as he moved, keeping his hands to himself, letting his feet and hips do the work, adjusting his attention yet again to the music, the beat, and propelling himself into it with force. His body jerked and swayed, his head knocking around.

Connor had no energy to burn off, running on the single shot he’d had at the bar, soon craving more alcohol, to climb onto a higher ledge. He wanted to be intoxicated, influenced, forgetting how messed up he’d become, in this familiar ambience of fog and noise and sex.

So after an indiscernible amount of time, Connor found himself back at the bar again, where soon a man offered Connor a drink. A part of Connor was elated, but obviously not surprised, that he was being hit on. After flicking his eyes up and down the stranger, not missing how the man's lips curved up sharply, Connor agreed, flashing his old smirk.

“Sure.”

Two drinks and minimal conversation later, most of which Connor didn’t hear, maybe something about the guy introducing himself, he was being dragged back into the heat of dancers. Connor hadn’t missed, even becoming drunk fast, how the man looked at him, eyes narrow and dark with interest, like Connor was something delicious to eat. It sent a shiver down Connor’s spine.

Inebriated, Connor stumbled along, smiling drunkenly and almost falling over the man when he finally stopped, pulling Connor in by the hips and wasting no time. Their bodies rolled together, sometimes knocking skulls as the people around them became rougher, more open and sporadic in their dancing. It made Connor laugh, the sound carried away and lost in the loud room.

Connor was dancing again, although with less traction and stability than before. Before long the Connor's hands began exploring, pressing his palms up the man’s arms to clutch his shoulders, a part of his brain noting the muscles twitch under his touch, how noticeably bigger the stranger was compared to his malnourished body and lithe frame.

Connor pulled him by the shoulders forward so their fronts touched. Connor had to tilt his head up to continue looking into his eyes, dark and blown wide. The man’s hands wandered around Connor’s body, down his lower back and grabbing his ass. Connor’s jaw dropped, a twinge of hesitance making his heart momentarily stutter. He ignored it though. Another drink maybe, would quell any remaining uncertainty that stopped Connor from enjoying himself.

The man’s lips brushed Connor’s cheek as he spoke in his ear.

“You ever rolled?” He had to practically shout.

Connor’s brows furled. He shook his head.

The man grinned and Connor watched him sneak his hands away to take something out of his back pocket, a small tin case. Connor swallowed. His mouth went dry, heart pounding in his chest.

He procured two small white pills, pushing one past his own lips and holding the other at Connor’s mouth.

Connor’s eyes flicked between the mystery pill and those dark, eerie eyes.

This wasn’t what Connor came out for. He intended to get smashed, dance to exhaustion and maybe hook up with a guy, although the thought made Connor want to throw up. But if he was drunk, it’d be okay, because Connor knew he could do it then, fuck a random guy like he used to. Use sex to repress his emotions, to forget about all the wrongs in his life, he did it before he met Oliver, what’s stopping him now?

And as much as Connor lied about his drug addiction to Oliver, he never did any proper research on illegal substances. He had no idea what this man was offering him, though he did put it in how own mouth too…  _ it’s probably some kind of stimulant, _ Connor thought with mild interest. 

His tongue darted out, curiously licking his bottom lip before pulling it between his teeth.

Before he could make up his mind, Connor’s lips parted mutely, allowing the drug to land on his tongue. It tasted like nothing, and after watching the guy’s adams apple bob, Connor swallowed as well.

Connor waited for something instantaneous to happen, but nothing came. They lingered on the dance floor, time becoming an illusion while they moved with each other, sizing one another up and ultimately making Connor feel… bored, dancing with the same person for so long. The alcohol thrumming through Connor's blood was the only thing keeping his interest, holding onto his focus for going out alone tonight.

At the man’s insistence, and Connor’s own need for destruction, they were back at the bar after tripping over lights and feet to down another drink. The man spoke some more. His voice was rough and deep, asking Connor questions about himself. Connor answered back with a heavy tongue, suddenly wishing he had eaten something before coming here, before allowing a man he had no interest in buy him drinks and feed him something strange.

Connor felt himself careening towards obliteration, alcohol sloshing in his stomach making him woozy, his brains turning to mush. He could barely keep eye contact with this guy, let alone pretend he was interested in talking to him anymore. The man didn’t even appear phased at Connor’s wasted face, and he was sure he looked ridiculous.

Finally Connor asked the barkeep for a water, wondering how to carefully excuse himself and go home, when it hit him.

The music slowed like someone had turned a tempo control knob over the entire club. Connor sucked in a breath and tasted the hot air, booze mingled with perfume and… something sweet, like candy. Connor licked his lips, gasping at the sensation; it was like someone else’s tongue playing with him, touching his lips before going in for a kiss.

A glass of water was set in front of Connor and he stared at it, watching with new eyes how the liquid seesawed around at being hastily dropped on the bar’s surface, splashing over the rim and sliding down the glass. As if he were on autopilot, his hand moved forward, knuckles brushing across the glass before his fingers worked, wrapping around the base and bringing it up to his mouth.

He heard the man next to him speak as he chugged the water.

“You feeling it, yet?”

Connor turned and tried to open his mouth, but instead he felt his lips stretch out into a wide smile. Abruptly, Connor was wide awake, his eyes dancing and looking at everything, focusing on every little thing that his gaze landed on. The man’s short, dark hair. The woman behind him wearing glasses, the way the overhead lights turned and twinkled in hues of green, pink, and yellow. A deep, cool chuckling brought Connor’s eyes back down, finding those mysterious dark eyes again, the stranger fixing him with an amused stare, laced with intent. He grabbed Connor’s hand and lead them back out onto the floor.

If Connor thought licking his own lips was a new sensation, being pressed against multiple bodies all at once was something out of this world.

Every single body part, hair, or clothing that brushed against Connor felt electrifying, like his skin alone was erogenous; pleasurably sensitive to the touch. Connor’s jaw was permanently hung, panting, pushing back against someone and then forward again toward his stranger, Devon, Dimitri, Dirk or something… he was surprised he suddenly recalled his name, kinda, but didn’t pay attention to that much longer.

Euphoria like he’d never felt filled Connor, starting from the tips of his fingers, shooting up his arms, down his legs and then back up to the hairs on his head. He started laughing, raising his hands, flexing his fingers in the air to expose more of his body to touch, which Devon or whatever gladly took advantage of.

He grabbed Connor’s hands above his head, keeping them up high as he pushed his body against Connor’s, one arm wrapping around his waist to hold him tight. Connor moaned, rolling his hips, electricity shooting like fireworks through his bones, hot and bright, making him see stars.

Dirk was mumbling, but somehow Connor caught on:  _ “... so fucking hot.” _

And then he was being kissed, his hands released and falling over the guy’s shoulders, wrapping around his neck and stepping up on his toes as he kissed back with all the drunken force he could muster.

It was all teeth and tongue, but it felt so inexplicably  _ good _ . Tasting this man’s breath, letting out an unashamed groan as he took Connor’s bottom lip in between his teeth and pulled, his growl echoing in Connor’s ears as animalistic passion.

Then Devon or whatever latched his mouth onto Connor’s neck and Connor’s knees buckled, holding onto the man before he fell because  _ fuck _ , that shouldn’t be so hot, teeth on his neck shouldn’t feel  _ this  _ erotic, like Connor could cum from this alone, maybe he could. 

But he didn’t. They made out on the dance floor without inhibition for what felt like hours, lost in a haze of lust, pulling back when it became just too heavy, exchanging dance partners constantly.

Connor was thrown around like a rag doll as he danced with a number of people and he loved it. He’d never felt so horny in his life, the sensation never dying, his erection straining against his pants felt, instead of frustrating, incredible. This constant arousal, building up and up without an end in sight. He didn’t feel like it was bottled up, but instead constantly flowing, almost like when you force yourself to slow down during sex to make it last longer… but the teasing halt never came. It made Connor want to ejaculate, to feel an orgasm in this state, just imagining what actual sex could feel like during this high made Connor tremble and shake.

Time didn't exist, it was all just a moment, dancing and laughing and touching. Connor couldn't stop moving or shaking his body, buzzing with energy and excitement. The world felt brand new and Connor drank it all in, uncaring who he danced with, who was touching him, or who he was smiling like an idiot at. Every single sense was heightened in the best possible way, and Connor had a fleeting thought of how he never wanted to come down from this. 

He couldn't even remember why he came out tonight, but Connor didn't care to think about it, or anything.

Hours maybe passed by before Connor’s wrist was taken hastily, yanking him out of the hot pool of bodies. Connor blearily recognized Derek, Devon… leading them somewhere isolated.

Connor’s hair fell in his eyes, flopping around and nearly blinding him on top of the dimly lit club as he attempted to keep his footing, nearly falling on his face a few times.

Connor thought about taking control, as he used to do, but knew, somewhere past his deliriously horny state, that he was still staggeringly drunk, and couldn’t stop Devon when he pulled him into a dirty bathroom with a flickering fluorescent light, and slammed him against a wall.

Connor coughed from the impact, his head throbbing, and Devon advanced on him, his kiss rough and eager. His hands drove down Connor’s pants immediately and Connor couldn’t help a whine that slipped past his lips as his throbbing cock was taken in this stranger’s hand, brushing almost uncomfortably against the seat of his pants.

“Wait,” Connor stammered, his fingers fumbling with the button on his jeans, just hoping to alleviate some of the pressure.

His pants came down to his ankles and moments later the guy’s mouth was surrounding him and Connor felt like he was dying. He screwed his eyes shut, trying to thrust forward, but strong hands held on tight to Connor’s hips, keeping him still while Dimitri sucked him off.

Connor nearly choked on his own spit while he came within minutes, slumping boneless against the dirty tiles of the bathroom wall.

As Drew or whatever came back up, giving Connor an open mouthed kiss that was sure to bruise, tasting his own cum, Connor came back down to earth.

He stopped kissing, moving his head to the side and swallowing hard. 

It wasn’t gradual, the high didn’t just wear off, it left completely, just as fast as it had started, bringing Connor back to where he’d been an hour or so prior: shit faced and seriously wanting to go home.

The guy chased Connor’s mouth, who turned to avoid his lips again.

“Uh…” Connor tried to piece together what was happening, what the hell he was doing, but all he could see was this body pressed too close, accompanied with the smell of beer and cigarettes and piss. He felt his privates exposed, wet and cold in the filthy air.

Connor put his hands on the man’s chest, weakly pushing back. “No…” he slurred. His tongue felt swollen and his eyes rolled around in his head like a toy.

“No?” The guy laughed, his hold on Connor remained solid, like an iron snare. Connor grabbed the man’s wrists and tried to detach them from his body and hated how weak he was all the sudden.

A wave of ice cold fear shot through Connor’s body as the man, instead of dropping his hands from Connor’s waist, took both of Connor’s wrists in one hand and pressed them up above his head, the other taking his chin and forcing their eyes to meet.

“That’s the thanks I get for getting you off?”

_ Shit _ .

Connor took a steady inhale through his nose, he felt his focus fading in and out, the man’s face blurring and sharpening. He could barely feel the guy’s hands on him, only an odd pressure over his skin sending muffled warning signals to his brain, the alcohol pressing down on all his motor skills.

_ You asked for this _ , a voice prodded behind Connor’s eyes.  _ You wanted this. _

The guy took Connor’s silence as consent, pressing their fronts together and surrounding Connor’s mouth with his own. Connor remained still, his dazed brain wondering if it would be smarter to reciprocate or struggle in his condition. He didn’t want this, this was wrong, dirty,  _ disgusting _ .

Connor tried again to protest, to move his face away from him, but the hold on his chin tightened painfully, forcing Connor's jaw to fall and stay open. He couldn't even move his lips properly if he wanted to.

He tried screaming, but any vocalization was buried in the man’s mouth.

_ This is all you’re good for _ . The voice returned as the man’s lips finally left Connor's, moving down his neck, taking sharp bites as he went. Connor flinched away, he heard a whimpering cry and was mortified to notice that sound came from him.

“Stop,” Connor spoke, he meant to yell but his voice was alarmingly quiet. He leaned further into the wall behind him, because any other direction was this mass of body surrounding him, trapping him in like a cage.

Connor heard the  _ clink  _ of a belt buckle and knew he had to try harder, push past the inebriation and fight. 

The man dropped Connor's hands to work on his opening his pants and Connor decided it was now or never.

He couldn't punch like this and the impact actually cause any harm, so as one of his hands came down he put extra force into it and tore his fingernails down the man's face, forcing a shout of anguish out of him.

Connor stumbled to the side while he was momentarily distracted, using his elbows to push around the bigger body and was just at the door when he was tackled to the floor. All the air left his lungs in a ragged cough from the impact.

If he were sober, hitting the cracked tiles would have registered as more painful than it seemed. Mutely he noted his chin felt wrong and his pelvis burned. Connor kicked his feet and nothing happened, his pants still around his ankles, limiting movement. Connor had forgotten about them.

“Get off me!” Connor screamed, finally finding his voice, gasping afterward. His lungs burned and his chest hurt, like he wasn't getting enough oxygen. The man on him was so heavy, pinning him effortlessly.

They scrambled on the floor, blocking the door. Connor momentarily wondered if there was anyone in here, listening to this and not acting, or when the next person would try to come in. It was worrying that anyone could hear this right now, the sounds of struggling, and do nothing about it. But that’s how people were, too scared to intervene, to even call for help.  _ Fuck _ .

Connor cursed, the impact of the floor and the man's body made him see white. Now that his vision was refocusing, the room spun. He bit the inside of his cheek and focused on the pain to prevent himself from passing out, everything was moving in an unsteady blur, but closing his eyes just wasn’t an option. Connor bucked up, probably not even getting an inch off the ground, flailing what limbs he could, dodging the man’s attempts at grabbing his hands.

Connor wasn't aware of it, but he must've thrown an arm back, because pressure alleviated from his backside and the those grabby hands left his body entirely. The first thing he did was gasp deeply, sucking precious air back into his lungs. He dimly felt a sharp stinging sensation in his elbow.

“You fucking-- my tooth!” 

Connor turned around, his back on the floor now, and with a harsh grunt, shot his knee up, making contact with the guy’s crotch.

The seedy man cried out, recoiling back, giving Connor enough room to wiggle out from under him. His back hit another wall and Connor cussed again, hissing. He lurched forward, grabbing and nearly missing his underwear and pants at his feet, yanking them back up.

Connor’s head was spinning. He blinked rapidly, trying to keep control, not to pass out, not lose sight of the bigger man wobbly standing up and hunching over Connor.

“No, no, _ fuck you _ ,” Connor spat, kicking his legs out and making feeble impact against the man’s shins. Before he knew it, the collar of his jacket was grabbed harshly and Connor was sliding back up the wall. Connor’s hands clutched his forearms to keep his hands there, cos while those fat fingers were wrapped around Connor’s jacket, they couldn’t touch him anywhere else.

The propulsion of being lifted off the ground so fast brought upon an abundant wave of nausea, making Connor’s mouth water and bile rise up his throat.

Connor vomited. The hot fluid fell all over himself and his attacker, forcing him to stumble backwards, off Connor, groaning in disgust.

Connor bowed forward, his arms wrapping around his stomach as it continued. His eyes stung with tears, spitting out the remnants and gasping for breath after it was over.

“... fucking disgusting,” he vaguely heard the man say. Connor lifted his head heavily and instantly saw red after hearing the unmistakable  _ crunch  _ of bone contacting with bone. The whiplash sent him sprawling back to the wall with a heavy  _ thump _ .

He’d been punched in the face. Connor’s hot cheek pressed against the cool tiles, moaning in pain. 

Connor screwed his eyes shut. He couldn’t keep them open anymore, it hurt now and the room was still whirling.

He heard the door open, the loud sounds of music and people suddenly apparent before dying down again to a dull bass line.

The man left.

Connor took broken breaths through his mouth, in and out, keeping it steady. He tilted his head up to the ceiling, groaning.

“Shit…” Connor whispered, licking his lips and tasting blood and bile. “Fucking… shit.”

Slowly his eyes peeled open, carefully lowering his head. He wobbled to the sinks, hanging onto the green stalls as he went, nearly collapsing over the faucet once he reached it. His body sagged, the injuries inflicted upon Connor gradually revealing themselves as varying levels of pain.

He turned on the tap, pointedly not looking at himself in the mirror, and scooped up water with his hands, splashing his face excessively, over and over, letting the water flow down his neck and under his shirt. Looking down at himself Connor had to bite back another wave of nausea at the colorful mess on his shirt. 

Connor grabbed an abundant number of paper towels and stumbled into a stall, having half a mind left to lock the door and collapse onto the toilet bowl.

He wiped his shirt off, dropping the napkins to the floor as they become soiled. His movements were slow, sluggish, numb. Humiliation and defeat pressing down on Connor like an intrusive blanket, making his eyes cloud up with moisture.

Connor sniffled, wiping his nose and letting his head rest in his hands.

His mind replayed the fight over and over again, cursing himself for letting this happen to him, for being  _ so stupid _ to allow himself to sink so low,  _ what was I thinking? _ His fingers curled up into his hair, gripping and tugging hard.

He needed to stand up, he needed to leave before that guy came back, or someone else witnessed him in this pathetic display.

The room was still unsteady, he ached all over, but his stomach was no longer queasy. Connor counted to 10, telling himself he’d move, get up and walk. Walk out of the bathroom, past the people and music, and find the nearest exit. He could hail a cab in no time, hopefully, or maybe it’d be smarter to call one.

He took his phone out, fingers numbly tapping at his lock screen. It took three tries before he could get to his home screen.

Where he once again stared at the little notification above his messenger app. Eleven unread texts.

Connor’s head fell forward, a sob wracking through his frame.

_ Oliver. Oliver. Fuck…  _

He opened the messages, scrolling up and starting at the beginning.

_ I’m sorry for everything, please let me make it up to you, I’ll do anything. _

_ I’m not going to tell anyone what you said, if that’s what you’re worried about. _

_ We need to talk about this, Connor! You can’t just ignore me. This isn’t going away, what you’ve done will never reverse but you still have me, I just want to help. Please let me help. _

_ I don’t mean to sound insensitive but… what were you expecting by finally telling me the truth? Did you think you had no other options? Why tell me that and then immediately afterward push me away? It doesn’t make sense.  _

_ Please just talk to me. _

_ Connor… _

_ Are you still ignoring me? _

_ Do you really not love me?  _

_ I don’t care what you did. I can’t live without you. I hate how you can do anything and I’ll still love you. You’re so annoying, I hate it. I hate it so much. _

_ Fuck you. _

_ I’m disappointed in you. I’ll stop badgering you. But… if you ever want to talk about it, I’m still here. I’ll always be here. It’s sad and pathetic, but it’s the truth. I’ll never get over you. But I’ll stop, if it makes you happy. _

Connor wiped the fallen tears from his phone screen with shaky fingers, nearly dropping the phone in the toilet with how erratic his hands had become.

He wasn’t even conscious of it, but he blinked and suddenly he had the phone pressed to his ear, listening to the sounds of ringing.

Oliver picked up after the first chime.

_ “Connor?” _

Connor’s hand smacked against his mouth, suppressing his choked sobs.

“Hi, Ollie…” he parted some fingers to speak through, his voice raw and scratchy.

_ “What’s wrong?” _ Immediate concern filled Oliver’s voice and it made Connor’s chest tighten in misery.

“I need you,” he took a shuddered breath, scrunching his eyes shut. “Help me.”

* * *

Connor opened his eyes to darkness. He blinked, moving his hands from under his head to rub gingerly at his eyes, groaning.

He was warm, surrounded by softness. It took a long moment to register that Connor was lying on a bed, a thick blanket over his head obscuring any light.

Which was throbbing.

Connor moaned despairingly, grabbing at the blanket and clutching it tightly around himself, his legs curling up so he turned into a ball.

If his body hurt last night, right now Connor was in hell. Everything ached, his face, his hands, arms, chest, pelvis and legs. His head alone felt like it was a ticking bomb, the ticks loud and stabbing in his brain and jaw.

“Oww…” Connor whined softly.

“Connor, are you awake?”

Connor stiffened under the blanket, his eyes shooting wide open. He listened to Oliver’s footsteps pad across the floor before taking a seat at the foot of the bed, the mattress sinking in lightly.

Instead of answering, Connor slowly stretched a leg out, poking Oliver’s thigh with his foot.

He heard Oliver sigh in relief. 

Connor waited while his heart rate slowed, blinking in the darkness and collecting his thoughts. Oliver’s hand carefully fell over the lump on the blanket that was Connor's ankle. The touch was grounding, comforting. 

But Connor didn't stir again. He didn't want Oliver to see him like this, battered, bruised, weak and defenseless. Memories from last night were coming back in a vague rush, ending with Oliver bursting into the bathroom and collecting Connor.

He couldn't remember how Oliver’s face screwed up in horrible worry at seeing him, his fingers gently brushing hair out of his face and trying to talk to him. All Connor could remember was the feeling of instant relief and security and all at once he had felt more tired than ever.

He barely recalled how Oliver undressed him in his own bathroom, pressing a warm, wet cloth here and there, taking care of him like he was Oliver’s problem.

No, that wasn't right, was it? It wasn't like that. Even half conscious, Connor knew it was love Oliver treated him with. It was out of love he cleaned him up, checked for any deeper injuries, made him drink water, all before slowly depositing him on Oliver's plush bed.

Oliver still loved him, Connor, who was a wreck, damaged, in more ways than he could imagine. He hadn't told Oliver of what he'd done, what had happened and what could have become something much worse. But he was certain Oliver could figure it out, if the bruises and bite marks were any indication.

But here he was, waiting for Connor to speak, offering his home again, his touch his sympathy, not condescending, but understanding. Connor didn't deserve it, didn't deserve such selflessness, especially after the way he's treated Oliver.

“I'm sorry,” Connor croaked out, slipping his eyes shut again.

“Don't be sorry-”

“But I am,” Connor interrupted. “I'm so sorry.” And he didn't just mean for how he acted last night, how Oliver had to discover him, how Connor only finally cracked and called Oliver while he was at the end of his rope… again.

Oliver sighed, moving his hand up and down Connor's leg in a comforting motion.

“How are you feeling?” 

Connor grumbled, not missing how Oliver attempted to sway the conversation. “Like shit.”

Oliver chuckled, the sound made Connor's heart light, a small smile creeping out.

“You've definitely seen better days.” Oliver joked. Connor felt him scoot further up the bed.

Connor huffed. “Thanks, doc.”

“Can you sit up?” Oliver's voice softened, his hand lifting and replacing itself over Connor's hip.

Connor sighed, trying to figure out what to say.

He turned around, the comforters pulling and falling around Connor, revealing the top of his head. Connor moved his hand and pulled the blanket down a fraction more, squinting against the light and fixing his stare at Oliver.

Oliver fell sideways, facing Connor.  

“Hey.”

Connor swallowed, pupils shaking as he studied Oliver's face. His flawless skin, sun kissed, a hint of 5 o’clock shadow covering his jaw. He followed the curve of Oliver's lips, the creases up his cheeks and surrounding his eyes; laugh lines that would only deepen with age, would always be there. It was a comforting thought, one that made Connor's skin prickle with possibilities, the possibilities of seeing those lines forever, as Oliver and him grew old together.

Oliver’s dark brown eyes, almost black, always transparent and beautiful. Connor could get lost in his eyes, be content to stare at them and forget about everything else.

Connor stretched an arm out, presenting his hand to Oliver, who took it without hesitation, holding it to his chest. Connor felt his heartbeat, calm and steady, if Oliver were to feel his, it'd be a stuttering rattle against his chest.

“You're too good to me,” Connor said, not letting his gaze fall from Oliver's. 

Oliver's brows furled together. “Connor…”

“I've done terrible things, to other people, to myself, to you… I'm a mess and you're always just… there. Comforting me, taking care of me. And I don't deserve it.”

“You're there for me, too,” Oliver insisted, scooting closer to Connor, noses inches away. “When I was diagnosed, you didn't even bat an eye, didn't make me feel inferior in any way, which was more than how I'd felt about myself at the time.”

Oliver's other hand curled around Connor's, so warmth completely surrounded Connor's hand. Connor's eyes dropped to watch Oliver's hands, bigger than his, fingers longer, enveloping his own.

“You loved me, at a time I didn't love myself. You're helping me grow and open up. And while I might've not realized it while we were together, being apart made it obvious…”

Connor shook his head, closing his eyes and taking a breath. 

“I've done so many bad things to you. I've lied, cheated, put my feelings above yours-”

“You were just trying to protect me.”

A lump formed in Connor's throat, his eyes stinging with impending tears. 

“I should have never approached you at that bar.”

A heavy silence fell, making Connor swallow with difficulty. He was doing it again, hurting Oliver. It was like he couldn't control it. All he did was push him away and he couldn't understand  _ why _ .

“Look where we are now,” Oliver spoke softly, his eyes downcast.

Oliver looked back up when Connor didn't respond. He dropped his hold on Connor's hand and instead gingerly took Connor's face in his palms, forcing the blanket back and leaning closer so they breathed each other's air.

“We’re both guilty of mistakes,”

Oliver started, speaking softly. Connor felt moisture fall down his cheek, a stinging sensation around his lips where he must've had cuts.

“But that doesn't mean we don't try to fix us.”

“I don't know if we can make this work,” Connor admitted brokenly. He wanted to try, he wanted Oliver so bad, so much it hurt. But things would never be normal, Connor was a criminal and Oliver was a thrill seeker. Connor had been forced into this dark role, an accomplice to two murders, and Oliver had willingly walked into Connor's life and because of him, was turning into someone who would hack into the police department if asked. Would probably even help in disposing of a body, if Annalise asked him to.

Oh God, the thought alone made Connor's stomach lurch.

They were both broken. They'd never be happy. The longer Oliver stayed with Connor, the more negatively influenced he'd become-

“Do you know why I let you in that night?”

Connor's mind halted, considering the question.  _ That night… _ When Connor showed up at Oliver's door, his sanity slipping, breaking down, turning up at Oliver's because he had nowhere else to go.

Connor shook his head.

Oliver took a steadying breath. “It's because I knew deep down that I could never let you go,” his thumbs caressed under Connor's eyes. “That I'll always love you and care for you, no matter what. And I'll continue to love and care for you, even if you won't let me… But if you'll have me back, I swear we’ll make it work.”

A wet sob broke past Connor's lips. His fingers climbed up Oliver's arms, clinging desperately. 

“You'll just be taking care of me,” Connor protested one last time, wondering why he wouldn't let it drop.

“No,” Oliver said firmly, touching his forehead to Connor's. “We’ll take care of each other.”

Connor's fingernails digging into Oliver's flesh should have hurt, but Oliver didn't flinch, moving closer so his body pressed along the outline of Connor's, covered in that thick comforter.

“You mean that?” Connor gasped, keeping his focus on Oliver's eyes.

“Yes,” Oliver’s eyes were shining. “You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, I thank every god I can think of for bringing us together, for bringing you to me. I love you so much, it's crazy,” Oliver laughed past his tears, brushing his nose to Connor's.

“Me too,” Connor whispered. His fingers released Oliver's arms and touched his face, tracing along his eyebrows and down his cheeks. 

“I'm going to be a better person for you, Ollie,” Connor sniffed, his fingers slipping back into Oliver hair. 

Oliver smiled and Connor's heart flipped. 

“I'm going to work on it, too.”

Connor wanted to say Oliver didn't need to change a thing, but pulled him into a hug instead. He couldn't speak anymore, Connor would never be able to articulate in mere words how he felt about Oliver, could tell him “I love you” until he lost his voice and it still wouldn't be enough.

Oliver's arms slipped under the covers and pulled Connor against him. The pain of his injuries barely registered while Oliver was surrounding him, his body and his senses, his thoughts and his heart.

“I love you,” Connor said against Oliver's neck, hoping the words would leave a mark, a symbol to never fade.

And when Oliver repeated the promise back, his hot breath hitting his ear and reverberating through Connor's body, he knew that no matter what else life threw at them, big or small, they'd figure it out. 

Together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stick around for an epilogue by the end of the week! (I know, I hate me too)


	4. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [3 weeks later]
> 
> Hey everyone! This is officially the ending... I hadn't expected this fic to turn out quite as... long or dramatic or crazy as I intended. But I guess I just like watching myself (and Connor) suffer :'D
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and sticking around! A HUGE OMG WHAT A BABE thanks to glitterbb for lending me her ear for the entire duration of this fic as well as Blink_Blue for constantly giving me moral support, stroking my ego (oh yeah bby) and generally just being fucking amazing.
> 
> I hope everyone enjoyed the crazy ride... thanks again :) also, [be my friend on tumblr](http://www.valeriianz.tumblr.com/)

“So, what happened?”

Connor looked over at Oliver. They were seated on the couch, sipping on morning coffee and mindlessly watching the news.

Oliver sat sideways, his shoulder and head resting against the plush couch, facing Connor. The question was asked softly, honestly. Connor didn't have to answer him, he certainly hadn’t brought up that night since Oliver found him days ago.

Connor sucked in a breath and remembered the healing bruises on his neck and face that Oliver had seen, that he was looking at right now, probably wondering if he should ask about them or not.

Connor was ashamed. He didn't want to talk about it, but he promised Oliver that he'd be more open and trusting. They'd have to get past this, just like they'd get past everything else…

“I was really stupid…” Connor started, shuffling to face Oliver properly.

Oliver was silent in return, prodding Connor along, or letting the subject drop.

“I just wanted to forget what I did to you, and went out… took some pill this guy gave me. And uh,” he looked down at his lap, wishing his coffee mug was full.

“You don't have to give me all the details,” Oliver offered. Connor met his eyes, kind, patient.

“I can only remember it in images anyway,” Connor smiled ruefully.

“I think he blew me, and tried to… take things further, but I didn't want to, and it got physical.”

Connor felt more than saw Oliver tense up.

“N-nothing happened. Uh, but,” Connor licked his lips, looking to the TV, avoiding Oliver's discomfort. “I had to fight him off me. He punched me in the face. Glad my nose is fine.” Connor stroked his nose gently, double checking.

“Connor…”

Connor blinked, whipping his head to face Oliver again, his jaw clenched.

“Don't feel sorry for me.”

“It's not that,” Oliver insisted, his hand creeping toward Connor in between the space between them.

“Why did you put yourself in danger? What was the point?”

Connor swallowed down the anger he felt rising up. He had to remind himself that Oliver wanted to understand, not fix him or judge him or correct him…

“I don't know,” Connor shrugged, keeping his voice down. “I didn't intend on getting into trouble, I just… I used to do this all the time.” Connor spoke like he was struggling for words, like he never had to explain himself before.

“Not taking weird drugs,” Connor quickly amended when Oliver pulled an odd face. “I swear I don't have a drug problem.”

“Okay.”

“I just needed to feel something…” Connor mumbled. “All I felt was nothing, after the regret of pushing you away. I hate feeling numb and useless. I didn’t know what else to do, so I went out looking to get drunk or laid… I'm sorry.”

Oliver scooted closer, kissing Connor's shoulder.

“I'm just glad you're okay.” Oliver’s voice was a soft whisper. Something much worse could have happened that night, they both knew.

Connor let out a long breath he’d been holding in and nodded, taking Oliver's hand that was resting between them into his lap, squeezing it gently.

“Why are you still working for Annalise?”

Oliver's head lifted from Connor's shoulder. Connor kept his gaze forward, it was an abrupt question but one that'd been plaguing his thoughts since Michaela confirmed he was still there. Now probably wasn’t the best time to ask, but Connor figured it was now or never, rip the band aid off.

“I was trying to keep up appearances.”

Connor looked over at Oliver curiously.

Oliver sighed. “I didn't want anyone to get suspicious about you. So I acted like nothing had happened, that you didn't tell me what everyone had done, and you just needed a break. Annalise even spoke to me about it.”

“What did she say?” Connor was almost speechless that Oliver did that for him, didn't bring attention to it, to them. It was brilliant, smart. But now was the time to formulate a plan, whether to go back to Annalise or make good on his word and quit for good.

“She asked why we were fighting…” Oliver looked uncomfortable. “I couldn’t tell if she was genuinely concerned for us, or what but… I brought up Stanford and she went quiet when I told her you had got in.”

Connor scoffed. “Bet she shit her pants.”

Oliver chuckled. “But I said that’s what we were fighting about, how I declined your offer.”

They both went silent then. Oliver’s words trailed off, like he had more to say.

“I’m sorry, Ollie.”

Oliver’s brows narrowed in confusion. “ _You’re_ sorry?”

“I mean,” Connor sighed, straightening his shoulders. “I’m sorry for blowing up about that, making it a bigger deal than it was.”

“It was a big deal,” Oliver said. “Now that I know what I took from you.”

Connor shook his head, sighing. He thought this topic was done with months ago. “It wouldn’t have worked out anyway... “ He didn’t need to emphasize how powerful Annalise was, her connections. Although most of her confidence was a ruse, Connor felt like her cockiness came from actual power; connections. Connor didn’t need to be a detective to see the connections Annalise made with higher-ups from all over the country. It was intimidating, like she was a mob boss and anyone who left her cult wound up dead.

“But I’ve been thinking about it… California,” Oliver pressed. “I’ve been looking at opportunities in engineering, development, _software architecture_.” Oliver spoke with earnesty.

“From small businesses all the way to corporate positions-- I _would_ be readily employed. I guess I… never gave myself credit for my skills until you came alone. Never explored my limits.”

Connor stared, heart thumping in his chest at the optimism in Oliver’s tone. “Well, you are a genius.”

Oliver smiled. “It’s my dream job to be a software architect, and I’ve been settling for IT… which is nice, boring, pays moderately well. I can move up fast though, I have the ambition now, I have a life I want to live…”

Connor’s pulse was racing now. “You’re serious.”

Oliver nodded, scooting closer, closing the space between them.

A smile unintentionally formed from Connor’s lips. “What about my education?”

“Ever heard of Berkeley?” Oliver scoffed. “If you got into Stanford, you’ll get in there easily.”

Connor’s skin was tingling with the possibilities, thoughts and ideas he hadn’t even considered while applying for Stanford. But there was one obstacle, one huge barrier preventing all of this.

“What about Annalise?”

“Fuck Annalise.”

Connor’s eyes blew wide, laughing with Oliver.

_Fuck Annalise._

“I don’t think it’ll be that simple…” Connor could just see it now, something catastrophic happening here while they were safe and cozy in California, one clue left amiss. There was no such thing as a perfect crime, you could only dodge the inevitable for so long. That’s what Connor learned from books, classroom discussions, and open-shut murder mysteries. They’d get caught, it wasn’t a matter of how, it was a matter of when. It could be tomorrow, it could be years from now, when Connor was old, happily married with kids and a full blown career…

_Married with kids?_

Hope and fear flashed across Connor’s eyes at the prospect. The very suggestion of a normal, happy life was baffling, not to mention terrifying. He’d never even considered it… raising a family. Why now? Why now, with Oliver pressed against his side, kissing his cheek.

“Connor,” Oliver hedged, touching his nose to Connor’s ear. “Has Annalise tried to contact you at all in the past week?”

“No…” Connor turned his head. Their noses brushed.

“She doesn’t care whether you come back or not. But if I can take anything away from the conversations with her, it’s that I think she expects you to come crawling back.”

Connor swallowed.

“Don’t give her that satisfaction.”

“I’ve tried to go to the police before.”

Oliver shrugged. “So she’ll send someone to watch you and see that you’re having a wonderful, successful time in the Golden State and not ratting everyone out, and leave us alone.”

Connor felt dizzy. This wasn’t how things were supposed to end up, this shouldn’t be the result of all the chaos and bloodshed he had to endure, but it could happen. Maybe it’d even work out, if Connor allowed himself to be just a little delusional… just a little happy.

“Okay,” Connor heard himself say.

Oliver’s bright smile was the last thing Connor saw before he was tackled, falling back on the soft couch cushions and throw pillows, surrounded in Oliver’s arms.

Warm lips caressed his, soft and euphoric. More reasons to not leave Philly slowly faded away as Oliver moved on top of him, reminding Connor of what he had in this moment, what he’d have forever, despite everything else.

It’d be okay, it’d be more than okay.

 


End file.
